


Desolation

by LadyoftheSea



Series: Watching the World Burn [5]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, Batman - Fandom, Batman: Arkham (Video Games), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Angst, Dark, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Manipulation, Multi, Mystery, Obsessive Behaviour, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Substance Abuse, Suspense, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2020-09-07 05:29:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 187,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20304217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyoftheSea/pseuds/LadyoftheSea
Summary: Miriam Kane and Gotham City believed they could put the past behind them. When a series of strange murders and a new, more violent, vigilante calling himself "Red Hood" emerges with a call for the Joker's blood, Batman must rise to face new threats and old foes as Miriam is forced to confront the man she swore she'd never see again.





	1. Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today marks the one year anniversary of when I started posting fanfiction. I can quite honestly say it's changed my life and I hope this is something I can continue doing for a long time. Please enjoy this story, and I hope you'll stick around to see where I take you all next. ❤
> 
> I would definitely recommend reading _Everything Burns_ before this one, but you don't need to read _There's No Hell Like Arkham_ to understand what's going on!

“Well, this is a right goddamn mess,” Harvey Bullock said as he reached into his trenchcoat pocket for his pack of cigarettes. The glare he got from Commissioner James Gordon made him drop his arm with a huff. “What? Not like he’ll mind any,” he said, motioning to the dead man lying faceup in a pile of dirt and garbage.

Refraining from rolling his eyes, Gordon shook his head. “Yeah, but I do. Don’t need you tainting what little evidence there is. Save it for your coffee break.”

Carefully stepping around the established perimeter, Gordon took in the scene in front of him. He'd only arrived thirty minutes ago, the body having been discovered in the last two hours, and the crime scene techs had already put up the large canopy tents to try and save anything that might be left for them to find; the steady downpour making the underlying stench of Gotham rise to permeate the air and sweeping the traces away that would tell them how the dead man had come to this particular alley to die. Blood pooled and mixed with the water, swirling in growing puddles between cracks in the concrete, and Gordon involuntarily winced at the sight of the ripped-off fingernail lying a few inches away from the hand it once belonged to. From what the techs had informed him, the victim had been dead for over twelve hours. How he wasn’t discovered earlier was a mystery but not a surprise. With the way Gotham had devolved over the last year, seeing men unconscious, dead, or nearly there wasn’t uncommon. The tunnel-vision Gotham had honed over decades reached new points of acuity: No one saw anything they didn’t want to.

“Medical Examiner says it looks like he died like the others,” Bullock said, rousing Gordon to look at him. “Mixture of old and new scar tissue, shredded feet, missing eyes, the weird-ass skin deformities, and…” He swallowed quickly before continuing, “Looks like the sonofabitch wanted to have his dinner _ à la _maneater.”

Gordon shot Bullock a glare that would have made a younger man have the decency to look embarrassed. But Bullock wasn’t young: Tall and imposing with a face that looked like it was hewn out of a craggy rock, small, muddy-brown eyes, perpetual five o’clock shadow, and a permanent odour of cigarettes, Bullock had been in law enforcement too long to have a filter. Regretting letting Bullock transfer in from Chicago, Gordon sighed and took off his glasses to wipe off the thick streams of rain.

“That’s one way of putting it.”

What Bullock had meant was that the victim had torn at his own skin—ripped it apart with what had been left of his nails, bitten his arms until the teeth sank in and tore chunks away. This man was naked—a difference from the other two, and his skin looked like hardened scales in one area only to be like milky white molasses in another. And, staring at the man’s face, Gordon could see the victim had also, like the others, succeeded in gouging out his own eyes. Blood trickled out from the victim’s still gaping mouth—tongue half bitten off and teeth splintering—and trailed down from his nose, pooling in his ears. If he was anything else like the other victims, he had likely spent a period crawling before his heart gave out.

“A mess is right,” Gordon said under his breath.

This was the third homicide in as many months, each one stranger than the last. The victims were inconsistent—the first was a woman in her late fifties in a ratty set of pyjamas found on the banks of the Gotham River, her hair ripped out by her own hand and eyes clawed, forearms covered in bites, and her mouth gaped in one last, permanent scream. The second, a small black man in his mid-thirties, was much the same. No real _modus operandi _to show the work of a serial killer, not in the traditional sense. The only thing to connect the victims was the near-identical expressions of terror and the proclivity for extreme measures of self-harm, and somewhere deep they struck a chord of familiarity in Gordon.

“What do you have?” asked a gravelly voice behind him. Gordon was too tired to swing his pistol around; he knew who it was. But Bullock was new and didn’t share Gordon’s sense of familiarity or restraint. 

“The fuck—?” Bullock started, whipping his sidearm out and cocking it. Batman responded only with a slow blink from his position at the back of the closed-off alley.

“Not much,” Gordon responded, walking past Bullock who still had his arms raised and ready to fire, staring at Gordon like he had just turned purple. “Similar story, different location. It seems as though they’re coming from somewhere in at least a ten-mile radius, but it’s hard to tell when—”

“What the shit, Gordon? What do ya think you’re doing, this _ freak _ain’t police—”

“That’s _ Commissioner _ Gordon to you, _ Detective,” _Gordon interjected, voice low and giving Bullock a glare of warning that was ignored.

“You’re outta your damn mind, _ Commissioner, _ if you think we’ve gotta resort to talking to loonies in fuckin’ _tights,” _Bullock spat. His arms had lowered, but he hadn’t uncocked his gun. Batman responded as he usually did: He said nothing.

“Take a walk, Bullock.” Gordon’s tone meant that it was an order and it was final.

Bullock seemed ready to fight him on it—he had his problems, but Bullock was clean and wanted his cases to stay that way—but his attention was turned to a forensic tech holding an evidence bag with something bloody inside, looking on and pretending she didn’t see Batman. Giving one last withering glare, Bullock edged around the crime scene to the small area where they had collected the evidence. Gordon sighed again, pushing his glasses up and pinching the bridge of his nose hard enough to leave a mark.

_ I’ll have to deal with him later, _he thought. Insubordination should’ve been the last thing on his mind but wrangling his new officers in was a challenge that only worked to raise his blood pressure.

“C’mon, let’s talk over here,” he said, motioning to a darker alcove further into the alley and away from the established crime scene. Finding a brief reprieve from the rain save for the occasional fat drop of rain to drip down the back of his shirt collar, he continued, “You gotta stop showing up like this. They’re already taking issue enough—”

“This is connected to the others,” Batman said. It wasn’t a question, and it was meant to dodge Gordon’s. 

_ Sometimes_, he thought, _ the man’s like a teenager—selective hearing at its finest. _

“Yes,” he said after a moment’s deliberation, eyeing up Batman’s scarred armour. It hadn’t been replaced in a while, and the added nicks and gouges made him look half-mauled. It reminded Gordon of how he felt most days. “I think so. That makes three, which means it’s not a coincidence.”

Batman nodded once and looked over Gordon’s shoulder to the crime scene, taking it in in a few glances. The medical examiner stood over the body, taking photographs and cataloguing the victim’s many injuries. If he was anything like the others, they’d find ligature patterns showing he was consistently restrained, his nutrition would’ve been subpar, and that his lungs would be filled with phlegm. That wouldn’t even include the many injection sites or scarring on the brain they would find. And, like the others, they would likely have a hard time identifying _ who _exactly they had in the city morgue. Every database they had searched showed nothing for the other two—no one had reported them missing and they’d never been processed—not by any system they had access to, anyway. In all his years on the force, Gordon had never seen anything quite like this.

“Besides the first, they’re not being dumped. They ran from… wherever they were being held before their hearts gave out.”

“The same cause of death,” Batman said to himself, head cocked to the side in contemplation. Bullock was shooting Batman and Gordon a glare; they both ignored him. “Did you check his neck?” 

“Check his neck?” Gordon echoed, turning only to find Batman had brushed past him, heading back to the crime scene. _ “Goddamnit.” _

Trailing behind, he waved off the techs giving him disapproving glances. In the aftermath of what the media had called “The Siege”, Batman’s popularity had plummeted when almost every criminal Harvey Dent had put away was released and the public had to deal with the fallout of the murdering mobs, riots, and watching as military-grade drones levelled a hospital. Gordon’s tenure as commissioner had not been an easy one, and Batman was many things, but he wasn’t helpful in bolstering public opinion and trust in the police. And flagrantly interfering with an active crime scene did not help his officers’ opinion of him. Too many remembered the funerals they had attended for those who had died in the Joker’s failed coup. 

“You’re tainting evidence—" Gordon started to call out before he caught himself. It wouldn’t do to look out of control when Bullock and the technicians were already scrutinizing him. And as much as Gordon wanted to believe otherwise, there _was _no controlling Batman. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath, catching up to Batman and watching over his shoulder. “Wanna tell me what the hell you’re doing?”

Batman ignored him. Holding a small scalpel and pair of tweezers, he turned the victim’s rigid body on his side, exposing the nape of his neck. Gordon was about to say something when Batman made a small incision. He settled for turning away and trying to wish away the headache pulsing behind his eyes, feeling the age-old pang for a cigarette that rose during times of stress despite having quit a decade before. Batman paid them all no mind. Once the incision was complete, Batman carefully pulled something out Gordon never thought he’d see.

“What the hell is that?” he asked.

Batman held aloft a small black mass—a third of the size of a pea with long fibres that pulled away from the muscles they were housed in—and examined it under the erected spotlights illuminating the crime scene. Rising and putting the chip in a small evidence bag he procured from his belt, Batman hid it from view.

“These were overlooked last time,” Batman said, walking past Gordon just as he was about to interject about taking evidence, back to the darkened end of the alley. Batman kept talking even though he didn’t look back, correctly assuming Gordon would follow. “The last two were corrupted, but—”

“Wait—what do you mean? You found more of—no, how the hell did you get into the autopsy room?” Gordon asked, his confusion mounting. In a sudden afterthought, he waved the last question away like he would a persistent fly. “You know what, never mind. I don’t wanna know.”

As much as the public might mistrust Batman, Gordon’s faith in him never faltered. He was tired, yes, but Gordon’s mind worked best when he was on the ground—finding the strings and where they led rather than sitting back and awaiting answers. Even after eighteen months, his new position still brought feelings he wasn’t used to. And it only got harder with Mayor Garcia gone and Arianna Hill taking his place. 

“You’re sure? Of course you’re sure.” Gordon sucked his teeth, thinking hard. He had done a thorough sweep of the GCPD—teaming up with Internal Affairs in an unprecedented crackdown on corruption to clean out the force as best he could.

_ And it still wasn’t enough, _he thought. Gordon checked himself; if he lost his faith in what he had done, then his thoughts would unravel in a way that would cause more harm than good. But there were consequences to his faith before. He tried very hard to not think of Harvey Dent, but he knew Batman already was. Gordon knew that some lessons came harder than others—that he needed to continue to be thorough, that trust was earned rather than assumed, but an unwitting sense of disbelief still gripped him.

“My people would’ve _ told me _—"

“Your coroner also didn’t check the blood of the other two.”

As much as many of Batman’s actions bothered Gordon, he was glad to have him as an ally. He was secretive, but he didn’t lie. He was intrusive, but he did what no one else who worked for him could—was _willing_ to—do. Gordon thought back to their promise as parts of the city burned, the sense of determination in the face of everything that wanted to overwhelm. They wouldn’t repeat the past. Gordon wouldn’t let either of them.

“How could he _not _have checked that?” he said, asking himself more than Batman. The city coroner—Bill Nielson—was new, but Gordon had vetted him. His certifications checked out, he wasn’t even a Gotham native, and Gordon had no reason to doubt him. 

“No, otherwise he would’ve found the large amounts of psychotropic drugs in their systems.”

_ Shit, _ Gordon thought. _ What exactly happened to these people? _

Even after looking at their bodies himself and examining what he thought were accurate reports, trying to find a rational pattern in their injuries, Gordon only had theories. The most prevalent one at the moment being that these people had been held against their will and tortured. But finding the _why _was what eluded—and bothered—him the most. Any anger or indignation about Batman’s intrusion into the morgue was forgotten. Gordon’s mind worked fast.

“Could the results have been interfered with elsewhere?” Gordon asked, fingers rubbing his stubble-coated chin, noting that he hadn’t shaved in almost a week. “A report falsified or altered?” 

“Possible,” Batman admitted. His eyes shot back to the mouth of the alley, not failing to notice the gathering of the crime scene investigators. From the way his posture was shifting, Gordon could tell he was ready to leave. “Let me handle this, Jim. If I find anything, you’ll be the first to know.”

Gordon never liked this particular part of their arrangement. Batman could find him whenever he wanted, and Gordon was lucky if he responded to the signal on the top of the MCU once a fortnight. He needed more answers, and he searched Batman’s face, trying to determine if there was something he was leaving out.

“Do you think this is at all connected with the recent tiff between the Djinn and Free Men? Or even these… new groups making another move?”

Batman backed further into the alley, taking his eyes away from the scene to focus on Gordon. “No. This is the work of… something else. Not a Mob boss.”

Gordon wasn’t so sure of that anymore. Not after finding various small-time gang leaders and lieutenants with their faces carved up and their bodies strung up from light posts starting fifteen months ago. If the Joker wasn’t secured in Arkham Asylum, his worry would’ve taken on a new meaning. Things in Gotham were changing again, and it was never for the better.

“Not even this ‘Red Hood’ character?” Gordon asked, thinking back to the reports informants had been giving his officers. He thought of him as another nut dressing up to make a point—but whether that meant he was a threat at a level the others had remained to be seen.

“No. He’s brutal, but not cruel,” Batman answered, shaking his head. “He has no reason to do this. These people weren’t part of a rival gang.”

Conceding his point, Gordon nodded. If it wasn’t someone already existing on their radar, that meant trouble and a mystery he wished he didn’t have to solve.

“I’ll keep trying to find where they were running from.” He rubbed the back of his neck, resisting the urge to look away lest Batman evaporate, when another thought struck him. “Oh, and before you pull a Houdini on me, you should know something.”

Batman's shoulders were tense, and he kept inching away from Gordon, further into the dark. Gordon spoke quickly, “Miriam Kane is coming back to Gotham. Did you know that?”

Batman stopped in his tracks, statue-like in every manner except for the occasional movement of his eyes. “Who told you?”

He didn’t really know what he was looking for in bringing it up. A reaction, a glimpse into something personal, perhaps. Gordon didn’t really know, and most days he was content in leaving Batman entirely a mystery, but tonight it wasn’t enough.

“Senator Hawkes. She called it a ‘courtesy call’ and to put her on a watchlist.”

It was a gesture Gordon appreciated. Whatever Batman’s relationship was to her, and no matter how bad Gordon felt about what had happened, he didn’t want her anywhere unsupervised in his city. She had left before Gordon ever sat down with her himself, only gleaning what had happened to her in bits and pieces from other witness reports and suspect interrogations. He didn’t like what he had found, the bad feeling it had left in his stomach and throat. But the Department of Defence and Homeland Security had made sure no one had heard anything from her in over a year. Why that was changing now pulled at Gordon’s gut. He didn’t know the specifics, but he’d be damned if he didn’t rectify that himself.

“Why are you telling me?” Batman asked after a moment of silence, his voice a touch less gruff than usual. It was a reaction Gordon hadn’t seen from him before, and now that he was asked, he wasn’t entirely sure why he brought it up either.

“I don’t know, I thought—” Gordon’s phone rang, loud and echoing off the wet brick. He got paid to answer it, no matter how much it annoyed him. “Yeah? Give me a minute here. I thought that she—” He cut himself off when he saw that the moment he wasn’t looking, Batman had taken the opportunity to disappear.

* * *

Although Batman had never spoken the sentiments aloud, his opinions matched Gordon’s: Trouble was coming, and he felt unprepared for it. That in itself was dangerous; underestimating the enemy and falling into a sense of false bravado and security is what had nearly crushed Gotham for good eighteen months ago.

“Tea, Master Wayne?” Alfred asked from behind Batman’s static figure. He’d been in the Cave so long that he hadn’t realized his gloved fingers had gone numb. “A proper cup, mind you. And some biscuits as well—”

Batman waved him off, resuming his typing at the computer. It was fruitless, he knew, but the other options available were ones he wasn’t ready to accept yet.

“Master Wayne,” Alfred interjected, stepping into Batman’s view so that he couldn’t use the excuse of absorption to continue ignoring him. “You’ve been down here for nine hours. Eating is just sensible.”

Fingers stilling, he took a breath and met Alfred’s eyes. “I’ve been thinking…”

“Always a dangerous endeavour, Sir.”

“Finally have a chip that isn’t corrupted, but I can’t seem to get it open,” Batman finished, ignoring the quip. He wiped at his tired eyes, contemplating taking a nap in a corner somewhere.

“Did you try double-clicking on it?”

Batman shot Alfred a look, gauging if he was being serious. The maverick grin on Alfred’s face told him he wasn’t, but it made Batman feel annoyed rather than humorous. Leaning back in his chair, nudging his disregarded cowl and cape on the floor out of the way, he gestured to the large arrangement of screens. Putting down the silver tray of tea and biscuits, Alfred narrowed his eyes.

“What exactly am I looking at, Sir?”

“Nothing, which is the problem.” Now he _really _wanted that nap. He couldn’t remember the last time he slept—or even touched his bed. “It’s encrypted. Some of the best I’ve seen, but I can’t get in to read the code and figure out what they were meant to do in the first place.”

“And you found this… where?” Alfred sounded afraid to ask.

“Back of the neck. Small fibres were attached to the muscles and I think the spinal cord. I didn’t have enough time to be sure. They were so broken down in the others that it was impossible to tell.”

Batman didn’t like undermining the police, going in and double—sometimes _ triple—_checking their work to ensure nothing was missed or tampered with. Things still slipped through, and he didn’t enjoy adding to the tension that further isolated rather than positioned him into a place where he could be efficient. And things were only getting harder.

“Did you send it to Lucius? He might be of better assistance—”

“Yes, and he’s working on it, just like the others.” He swept a hand through his hair, noticing that it needed a desperate wash and trim. “I have a feeling he’s going to tell me the same thing he did about the last two.”

Alfred snapped his heels together and brought the tray around again, trying to awaken a nonexistent appetite. Keeping it there a moment later to be sure Batman wouldn’t be enticed, Alfred nodded and turned to leave. “Very well, Master Wayne. Ring and I will pull something together for supper.”

Batman didn’t answer, looking out at the cascading waterfall that acted as one of the few background sounds that relaxed him. Wayne Manor was finished by less than half, but it was enough for Bruce and Alfred to move back in—and access the improved space that Batman had seen to rebuild himself. He had everything he needed in that large cavern, but most days it never felt like enough. There was always more to do, dozens of cases worthy of his time and a war he couldn’t see the end of.

_ There aren’t enough hours in a day. _

Just as Alfred moved to head to the elevator, too soon Batman fell away and Bruce Wayne was all who remained. Maybe it was the exhaustion, but he felt compelled to ask, even if he wouldn’t like the answers it brought. “Alfred?”

“Yes, Master Wayne?” Alfred looked eager, like Bruce had signalled more than a simple inquiry.

His chest tightened in a way that hurt his bruised ribs. They always seemed to hurt—the pain never fading, the bruises becoming permanent. “When’s the last time you talked to Miriam?”

The smile faltered for a moment before Alfred recovered. Bruce knew it was an unexpected question. He didn’t bring her up often. When time allowed, and he always made time, he had watched with the reach he had to make sure she was alright. He knew she saw a psychologist regularly, she had started frequenting a boxing gym, that she’d been to a skin clinic twice, and that she otherwise barely left her apartment in Chicago. Those things were easy to determine by accessing CCTV cameras—a feat made possible by some of the very programmes Miriam had helped develop—and from Bruce making a few inquiries. Every other trace was impossible to find unless he investigated Alfred’s emails. He had the ability to do so, but he hadn’t grown desperate enough to break Alfred’s trust. It would be easier to keep tabs on her in the city, even if that in itself brought a fresh batch of trouble.

“I believe this past month, Sir,” Alfred said after some time.

Miriam had chosen not to speak to Bruce, and he hadn’t known what to say, so he had said nothing at all. He regretted it, but the solutions to the problems he created for himself were more difficult to solve than the enigmas in front of him.

He watched Alfred’s expression carefully, unsure what he was even looking for. “Did she tell you she was coming back?”

The puzzlement on Alfred’s face was immediate and sincere; he hadn’t known either. The notion was worrying.

_ I need to follow that more closely. Hawkes could have misunderstood. _

Bruce knew that wasn’t the case—why would Gordon bring it up if it wasn’t a certainty?

“No, she did not,” Alfred said, his voice quiet even in the echoing cave that amplified all sound. His shoulders only dropped an inch, but Bruce still noted it and the shift in Alfred’s expression. “Who told—”

“Jim Gordon. The senator told him, apparently.”

But why wouldn’t Miriam tell them? Things were unresolved, but he wouldn’t say that there were ill feelings surrounding her departure. Well, that would be true if there _had _been a formal departure. Miriam had simply packed a few bags, said goodbye to Alfred, and had left Gotham so quietly that it wasn’t until after two days of damage control that he had thought to ask how Miriam’s bullet wound was mending only to be told she’d left.

Bruce winced at the memory now, considering for the first time that he might have been callous. He had trouble meeting Alfred’s eye. “She’s still talking to you, could you…”

_ Could you ask her “why?” Why is she coming back—why didn’t she call? How do I fix this? _

But Bruce didn’t ask any of those things, unable to summon the words or the will to open the door he had to firmly shut. “Never mind. I’ll be up shortly.”

“Very good, Sir,” Alfred said, giving Bruce one final stare that fell on his back rather than his face. 

Bruce had missed Alfred’s look of disappointment, having turned to the monitors and staring at the encryption codes as if the answer would appear if he thought about them hard enough. His mind wandered back to the crime scene in the alley and the others before it. Even that was the least of his concerns. He had heard rumblings of a budding gang war down on the East End. The Mob heads might have fled or died, but the men who made them rich were still thirsty for bloodshed. The struggle that had warped Gotham in the power vacuum that was the last eighteen months was coming to a head, and Batman wouldn’t let his city descend into chaos. He couldn’t, no matter what.

As Alfred shut the elevator door and ascended, Batman returned and stared intently at a fuzzy picture. The man was tall and broad-shouldered, muscled in a way that showed he had training and was putting it to use. A Jericho 941 was in one hand and what looked like a kris dagger was strapped to his thigh. But more concerning than those things was the modified hockey mask that obscured the lower half of his face. Something else covered his eyes, hiding any discernible detail that would lend to identifying him. A red hood shrouded most of his other visible features in its shadows.

_ Red Hood. _

It was a simple moniker—one given to the man by those that saw what he could do and either ran or joined. This was a more pressing threat, and Batman tried to put everything else to the side as he sat in thought.

Gordon had told Batman about the risk of escalation over two years ago, and he had thought he’d endured the worst of it with the Joker, but now he began to see that he was wrong again. He just didn’t see that this wouldn’t stop: It wouldn’t—not once the avalanche began. They all would have to wait and see what remained in the aftermath, what would survive the desolation and bring about a new beginning. 

* * *

Martin “Marty” Stewart tried and failed to rub the cold out of his fingers. It might’ve been spring on paper in Gotham, but the chill that came after sunset had Marty believing that winter was coming back for another go rather than the month giving way to April in a week. His breath fogged in front of his face as he broke into a jog. He had a deadline to meet—cold or no cold.

_ “Meet the quota and we’ll see about initiation,” _Frank had told him. Despite the freezing wind that he swore was nipping at his balls, the small bags of heroin felt like hot coals in his pocket.

_ Gettin’ close, _he thought.

Frank told him to man a new corner tonight. That itself was a dangerous assignment even a year ago. The Falcones, Maronis, and Dimitrovs all had their established territory; you didn’t cross it if you wanted to keep your head. But most of them were dead, and every street was a new front in No Man’s Land. Fear and exhilaration filled his burning lungs. The faces he passed were unfamiliar, wary and scrutinizing—not like those he knew back in his neighbourhood.

Ignoring the tug at his gut like he always did, Marty stopped moving once he found the corner he was after. Four blocks away from Sheldon Park and three from the newly dubbed “Crime Alley”—its namesake self-explanatory after it was ravaged in the riots twice in the space of a year. The buildings were tall and blocked out any light from the moon, trapping in the smog from the steel mill off the east side of the Gotham Harbour and giving the neon lights of the strip clubs, bars, and pawn shops a brighter hue. Jumping back after getting a shoe full of muddy gutter water, Marty considered his options.

Though the street was lit up, there weren’t many people on the sidewalks. Curtains were closed in the windows exposed to the street, throbbing music could be heard further down the block, and he had an eerie feeling that he was being watched.

_ “Man up. Don’t be such a pussy,” _ Frank had told him when Marty questioned the proposed plan. _ “There ain’t a place in the False Face Society for cowards.” _

And Marty wasn’t a coward. _ He wasn’t. _He could do this. Marty could sell the nine baggies of heroin and show Frank that he had it in him. Protection these days was just as important as having a place in the hierarchy. Things were safer that way—and Marty wanted in. He’d lost it when the Chechen bit the dust, and now he was going to get it back.

Adjusting his hoodie and pulling up his jeans that were trying to snake down his hips, Marty strutted forward, eyeing up every doorway like it was going to open up and spill out eager junkies waiting for a fix. Leaning against a cold brick wall, Marty waited, nodding and making purposeful eye contact with everyone who passed. But nobody seemed to be buying.

“Hey, know where the action’s happenin’ tonight?” Marty asked two passing prostitutes at one point. They stared at him, not seeing someone they recognized and quickly moved on. “Fuckin’ bitches,” he muttered after he was alone again. 

His hoodie and an oversized t-shirt underneath weren’t enough to keep him warm, and he started to shiver. Sticking his hands into his armpits to warm them, he considered cutting his losses.

_ Can’t do nothin’ about nobody wanting to buy. _

He’d done what he was told; it wasn’t his fault the corner would take a while to be established. After the 2:00 am mark, his nose running and toes numb, Marty shoved off the wall when something caught his eye. A neon sign above flickered and sputtered, but he swore he saw something big and red at the end of the otherwise empty street—too large to be a fire hydrant and it was moving. When the sign above came back to life, whatever it was he thought he’d seen was gone. The feeling he was being watched only intensified.

“Fuck this,” he mumbled.

Shoulders hiking up to his ears, he turned around and smacked into a wall he swore wasn’t there before. Falling on his ass at the edge of the sidewalk, one hand plunged into an icy puddle, he looked up and nearly bit a chunk out of his tongue.

“You lost?”

It came from the man in front of him—but he didn’t sound like a person. It was deep and artificial, a reverberating grumble that lingered in the air before disappearing. People—_normal _people—couldn’t make those sounds. Marty almost pissed himself, thinking he’d finally encountered the goddamn Batman, but he couldn’t see this man’s face—anything beyond hints of red metal around where the mouth should’ve been.

_ Batman doesn’t wear red, right? _

Irrationality stirred by fear had almost convinced Marty he was looking at a Terminator. When he finally stepped forward, Marty scrambled back, getting soaked entirely by the water.

“You’d think someone would’ve told you,” the man said, and it was only then that Marty saw he was spinning a handgun around his finger by the trigger. An arm, thick with corded muscle, reached down and pulled out a long dagger—sharpened to a wicked point. Marty shook so hard his teeth rattled. 

“T-Told me what?” Marty asked, trying and failing to sound like he still hadn’t pissed himself.

“This place is closed for business. Red Hood’s in charge now, got it?”

Marty, the hair on his arm rising painfully as the fear choked him, almost threw up when the gun stopped spinning and was pointed at him. He didn’t even have time to beg, to crawl away and tell Frank he quit—the safety flicked off with a _ click _and the hammer pulled back. 

_ “Spread the word. _”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I plan on posting every two weeks, so I hope you all check back and see where this crazy train of mine ends up going. 
> 
> Thank you to [Khaosprinz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khaosprinz/pseuds/Khaosprinz) for all her help beta reading this - definitely check out her stories about the BatBrothers if you're so inclined! I also want to thank [LittleSnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleSnow/pseuds/LittleSnow) for her help and encouragement from when I started out last year, her advice and support has been incredible! If you're looking for a great JokerxOC story, then definitely give her series a read! And thank you to Boag and JohnJoestar for all their help and advice with this - and all of you who are out there reading; I couldn't do this without y'all! ❤


	2. Not So Many Happy Returns

_“Don’t argue with me,”_ Naomi says with a sigh, the sound of fingers clicking against a keyboard rising in the background. She can’t even bother to give me her full attention, and my jaw tightens so much I can feel my old fillings grinding together. _“You’ve said your piece and, frankly, I don’t care. You’re there and you’re going to do what you’ve been assigned.”_

My bruised hands curl into tight fists, and I shut my mouth before I say something stupid. Naomi doesn’t deal with emotion, only pragmatic reasoning. Finding the tack with her has been like ripping out my own nails—and it didn't stop her from shoving me on a plane and it won’t make her call me back to Chicago. Why I’m bothering is a mystery even to me, but not putting up every method of resistance seems like a greater insult than letting this lie.

“Naomi, you _don’t _want me here, I don’t know how many times I have to say it. I can’t do—”

_“Yes, you can. And you will,”_ she interrupts, voice hard. She’s heard all this before, and she’s right—she doesn’t care. I open my mouth but it’s like she can sense it from over twelve-hundred kilometres away; her perception has, annoyingly enough, not dulled over the distance._ “What was the point of all those sessions with Dr. Mano if you can’t handle this, Kane?” _she asks.

_Because I never said anything. Because it was fucking _useless _and I never wanted to go. Because he was cold and just—_

Blinking hard, I make myself breathe deeply. Thinking about those god awful meetings where we just stared at each other—him waiting for me to start and my mouth never opening, asking questions I never answered aloud. That never stopped him from trying, and it was never enough for me to start. I knew once I started, I wouldn’t stop until there wasn’t anything left in me. It’s not until the phone clutched in my hand slides down from my ear that I notice my hands are going numb, my legs shaking.

_Again._

It was like this when I got off the plane, too. When I sat in the bathroom for twenty minutes trying not to hyperventilate.

_“It’s been almost two years. Gotta get over it sometime, kid.” _She doesn’t say it unkindly, but it’s not with benign intentions, either. My mouth won’t work because there’s nothing I can say that will change her mind. She knows it. I know it. But this isn’t the first time we’ve had this song and dance, and doing it now is a waste of both our time. That doesn’t stop my eyes from burning. _“You have the key, do you not?”_

The pulsing muscle in my jaw makes it difficult to speak, but I grind out the answer as a scab over my knuckle splits open and a small line of bright red grows. Reluctantly, my hand opens and I stare at the set of keys that makes everything all too real. “Yes.”

_“Perfect.” _Naomi knew what the answer would be. She knows I can’t say no. _“The dossier is on the counter. You have three days to get your shit together—then we get to work.”_

“Naomi—” I start, but it’s too late; she’s hung up by the time it took me to draw the breath. “_Fuck_._”_

I want to throw my phone in the gutter—yell and curse her name and existence as I scream out my anger. The urge makes my heart race, imagining the action like I’m doing it already—circles of black closing around my eyes like a shutter as I try to breathe. Instead of crushing it against the stained concrete like it’s a proxy for her skull, I press the warm glass and metal to my head to calm down.

_Breathe._

There’s no doubt I look like a fool—jacket that’s too thick for the weather, small bundles of bags spilt at her feet, and the look of someone who hasn’t slept in a few days clutching her phone to her damn head like she’s synthesizing information through fucking osmosis or something. My fingers go to tug on my hair but come up short, looking for long curls that don’t exist anymore.

_Old habits die hard._

It’s mid-afternoon, but the sun still isn’t enough to warm me. I can’t go back but don’t want to move forward.

_And you can’t stand here forever._

Gotham’s just as miserable as I remember it being, and the building in front of me is no exception. Tall and gray like the rest of the structures beside it, the apartment I’m supposed to live in resides in an area of Gotham I’m not familiar with. Not far from the East End and a good distance away from Wayne Enterprises, Grant Village Apartments doesn’t look so different from the place I lived in in Chicago. It even has the same appearance—cold, probably has a moisture problem, and likely poorly maintained.

At the sound of voices, I whip around, hands tightening around my phone and re-aggravating the bruises and cuts. A small group of men walk up the sidewalk, heads bowed toward one another as they laugh at some shared joke. There isn’t anything outwardly menacing about them, but the hair on my arms still rise and I’m slammed with the reminder of how vulnerable I am just standing on the sidewalk.

_Screw the three days. Get started now and you can get out of here sooner._

Naomi didn’t make that guarantee, but I hold onto it like it’s a promise.

_She wants the job done and then you can leave. There isn’t any other reason to be here._

I keep telling myself that as I shoulder the heavy bags—the same ones I never totally unpacked when I left in the first place—and cross the street, not really caring if there are cars coming. Mechanically, one foot in front of the other, each motion becoming the result of deliberate thought, is how I manage to move through the fear. Hours of punching at faces that weren’t there and being unwilling to stand in the wind like a useless piece of string have made me work through my anxiety—even when all I want to do is hide; turn into stone and wish myself out of existence.

_But that doesn’t work, you know that. Keep moving. Breathe._

Mumbling the same thought under my breath, I ignore the horns being honked at me as drops of rain hit my head. Struggling to get the front door open, my bags catching on the edge of the frame, I fumble with the keys until I get the right one in the slot and the buzzer sounds. It’s not until I’m at the stairwell and up the first flight that I realize I don’t even know what floor I’m supposed to go to.

_Brilliant, Miri. Absolutely brilliant._

The tag on my keys says “801”—one of the top floors of the building. The bags hanging from my shoulders and digging into the crooks of my arms feel heavier as I look up the long, winding set of wooden stairs. Going back and finding an elevator crosses my mind.

_Just move. Work out the thoughts._

Like before, I move one foot in front of the other and think about nothing.

That’s how I’ve dealt with everything. Moving. Hitting things hard enough to break bone when I hit a target on a bad angle. The fight training I abandoned as a teen has been the only thing keeping me from breaking. I’m not weak anymore. That’s a mistake I’ll never make again. Adjusting the biting straps, I go up another flight, ignoring the strain in my thigh—a leftover from my last kickboxing session before I left Chicago.

_Don’t think about it._

_He _was right. I needed to work on my pain tolerance. Now it’s high enough that I end up hurting myself in ways I couldn’t before.

Despite all the work I’ve done, I’m still winded by the time I get to my floor. Chest sucking in air like I’ve made no damn progress at all, the sweat on the back of my bare neck goes cold and makes me shiver despite my rising body temperature. The thick sweater that hides everything I need it to makes the dense air feel like the steam from a hot sauna.

The hallway of the eighth floor is long and the carpet smells like mildew and urine, and there’s shouting coming from the other side of a door, words indistinguishable but the anger palpable enough to feel like the argument was happening in front of me. I think of the untouched bottle of prescribed valium in one of the bags at my feet from Dr. Mano. He wrote me a prescription after I admitted to having panic attacks. I never swallowed a pill, but I still kept them with me for reasons I never examined closely, but now I’m considering how often I’ll need to have them just to sleep as the shouting turns into screamed curses.

_Here’s hoping Naomi had the decency to at least make sure the place is clean._

Something tells me she doesn’t care about that, either. The Department of Defense doesn’t care about pulling out all the stops—not for someone like me.

_Didn’t take long to learn that._

Hoping at least there’s a bed for me to crash on, I drop my bags in a heap and shake out my arms, trying to figure out which key opens the door. After trying all three, my frustration—at being back in Gotham, at Naomi for sending me here, at myself for being stupid enough to think leaving would solve my problems, all the exhaustion and boiling anger that never leaves—explodes out of me and I kick the door hard enough to leave a dent in the wood, cursing under my breath. When I get a key in and it sticks, not moving to either side, I draw back a fist—I don’t even know why; I can’t punch down the door, I’m being irrational—too impatient.

But I don’t care.

“You should go to anger management for that.”

Sucking in air like someone punched me in the gut, I spin around so fast I fall against the door I was just abusing, searching for the voice. Blood floods my ears, making them ring. The voice sounds familiar. Why is it familiar?

_It’s not _him—_it’s not, he’s locked up. Breathe, breathe—_

It did and didn’t sound like him—and I can’t tell which. I can’t see—the hall constricts and it’s like I’m going blind, I can’t—

“Hey, lady—you don’t do drugs, do you?”

The world snaps back into focus. A small girl sits at the top of the next flight of stairs—the one leading up to the ninth floor—peeking between the wooden spokes of the bannister. She’s staring at me, lips pouted out and head twisted to the side. Anger quickly replaces the panic that makes my heart hammer against my ribs.

“Don’t you know it’s rude to sneak up on people?” I snap. Too late I wince at my tone, leaning against the door and rubbing my neck, trying to stave off a building headache. The screaming behind the neighbouring wall stops and I’m grateful for the small mercies.

Small footsteps against creaking wood make me open my eyes only to find a bright set of gold closer than they were before. The girl is quiet and surprises me but, this time, I hold my ground.

_It’s just a kid. No reason to be afraid of a child._

I keep thinking that, and yet my pulse never slows.

“I wasn’t _sneaking_. You’re the one who was too blind to notice me,” she says, eyeing me up.

Even though the only skin she can see is on my neck and hands, I still pull the sleeves further down and adjust the collar of the turtleneck higher until it touches my chin. I would’ve brought my hair forward to hide more, but it’s still choppy and short, the jagged ends barely reaching my jaw. I settle for glaring instead.

“I am _not_—” My jaw clamps shut, almost biting my tongue.

_Were you about to chew out a _child? _Get your head on straight. Breathe._

The girl’s short—her head just barely level with my ribs, cheeks full and round, skin a light brown, her hair thick and wild with frizz, barely restrained with a bright pink scrunchie. She can’t be any older than nine or ten, but I’ve always been terrible at guessing ages. My face goes hot when I realize I _was _going to say something rude. I want to blame it on the flight, on hauling forty-five pounds worth of bags up eight flights of stairs and dealing with more stress than is good for me—but I can’t. Hostile was always my default setting before when I was scared.

_Looks like that hasn’t changed. All those old habits again._

“Whatever,” is what I manage to say. It’s petulant. Juvenile. I’m cringing but I turn around, resuming the struggle to get my key to fit in the godforsaken lock and get out from the scrutiny of this kid and into the dark pit I’m not going to leave unless absolutely necessary.

“Nice meeting you, too, lady,” the kid huffs, her sneakers scuffing against the floor. She’s making a lot of noise, but none of it sounds like she’s looking to leave. “You living in there now?”

Giving up on getting the key in the lock—again—my head smacks against the chipped wooden door.

_“No.”_ I wince—the word sounded more like a bite than an answer. My fingers push against my eyes, trying to keep back the pressure building behind them. “No, I’m just… staying for a little while. It’s not permanent.” I’m glad that my voice at least sounds softer, that I managed to work off the sharper edges. She’s standing too close, her big eyes open like an observant bird.

“Oh.” Her voice is so quiet that, for a moment, I think I’ve succeeded in upsetting her. Just as I start to panic about how to deal with an offended preteen, her face brightens up with an eager smile I don’t understand. “I guess you’ll be my neighbour, then.”

_She’s… persistent. I’ll give her that._

“I… I guess so, yeah.”

Her words make my head clue in—she’s here because she’s a tenant. The thought of running into her consistently already has me feeling tired. Maybe it’s her enthusiasm—or maybe it’s because I can’t remember the last time I talked to someone willingly other than Naomi—but my guard slowly lowers, my muscles losing their high-strung tension.

“Which one’s yours?” I ask, looking back down the length of the hallway like I’ll find that I missed a set of parents, too.

The kid does a small jump in place, going up on her tiptoes as she spins. “803.” My face goes hot when I see that’s the door where the screams were coming from. “You’re not crazy, are you?”

The question slaps me in the face. Black circles return around my sight; the strained muscle in my leg jumps. “U-Um, no?”

_That sounded _so _convincing. _

She’s still moving around, dancing in a small circle but staring with a grin that shows a missing canine tooth. “That’s good. The last guy was _nuts_. He’d wake Dad up all the time and then he’d be grumpy for work. It wasn’t very fun.”

The spinning dance stops, and her face falls. She’s staring at her apartment door, seeming to forget I’m even standing here. Her fingers tug and pull at the strings of her white sweater, tightening up the hood of it until I worry it’ll wring her neck. The eager desperation to be on the other side of the door with the bolt in place fades, and the words come up easier than they have in months.

“No, I guess it wouldn’t be.” It seems like such an obvious thing to say. Kids—I don’t know how to deal with them. They see too much and their judgements were always a little too accurate for my liking. I don’t know what she sees when she looks at me and I don’t want to. “I won’t wake your dad up. Don’t worry.”

_Why are you still talking? _

“Look, kid, I’ve got a lot of unpacking to do,” no, I don’t—I’ll be living out of these bags just like before, “and I have some calls I need to make.” That, at least, isn’t entirely untrue. I just don’t know how I’ll be able to make them.

The girl’s attention snaps back to me, getting close and crowding me against the door. I jump away from her, avoiding any physical contact. She eyes me up again with a raised brow.

“There’s a trick to the lock, y’know. Gotta twist a bit to the left and _then _the right, dummy.”

_‘Dummy’? Great. What wonderful neighbours I have._

Just as I silently curse Naomi’s blighted existence, the door to apartment 801 swings open. What almost had me willing to break my foot over she had open in a few seconds. My mouth opens but no sound leaves.

“I’m Zareen. And you’re _welcome,_” she chides, showing off her missing tooth again.

“I’m Miriam.”

_Oh—fuck. Why did you say your name?_

My fingers pull at my hair again. _Stupid—_I didn’t want to use my first name in Gotham. It just… spilled out. I didn’t have to watch the news to know what Gotham thought of me. Changing my hair and gaining some weight back might’ve changed how I look, but putting that name to my face could be dangerous.

_But… she’s just a kid. What will she know, right?_

Kids can still watch the news and use Google.

_Gotta be more careful, then._

“Miriam?” she says, her hand going to the knob of her apartment and snapping me back to attention. “That’s a pretty name.”

My cheeks feel warm again and, just for a moment, I forget why I’m here—why I _don’t_ want to be here. It’s been a while since I’ve heard anyone else say it aloud. Naomi regularly calls me by my last name, and the only other person to use it was Alfred when he called two months ago.

“Thanks,” I say. A smile starts until I realize who else was the last one to use my name and it fades, hiding back where it needs to be. She doesn’t seem to notice, her wide grin still in place. “I guess I’ll… see you around, Zareen.”

She doesn’t say anything else, only waves and disappears behind her apartment door with a small _click _as it closes. My hand raised, giving a half-finished wave to no one as I stare at where she stood, a familiar ache fills my chest and makes my eyes sting. Heat races up my spine, raising the skin and making my scalp tingle. Air won’t get in my lungs and my hands shake.

_Get inside and breathe. You’re fine. He isn’t here. No one knows you’re here._

Say what you will about Naomi, but she’s discreet. No one will know I’m here unless I want them to. No one will find me.

_That’s right. Breathe._

Whom I’m afraid of isn’t important—they’re dead or locked up. I _know _that and yet the feelings don’t stop. They never go away. No matter how hard I try.

_Breathe._

I don’t remember moving the bags inside, just that I do. Fingers trembling, I slide the deadbolt home and struggle to put the chain in place. My head feels light, but I ignore it, picking up the thick manila envelope from the granite countertop and dumping out the papers, staring as the lines blur together. They go in and out of focus, but I make myself read. The sooner I work on this the better.

_ CASE REPORT _

_ Case No. 4893-89-J _

_ A. Cargo type: _ _ Heroin and small arms._  
_ B. ETA: _ _ Intermittent shipments at least five times a month. Likely unloaded between 0100 and 0300._  
_ C. Method of Transport: _ _ Shipping containers, Gotham Docks._  
_ D. Method of Distribution: _ _ “FalseFaceMarket” via the Dark Web._  
_ E. Country of Origin: _ _ Afghanistan. Likely routed through Pakistan._  
_ F. Distributor: _ _ Unknown._  
_ G. POI: _

_i.Theodore “Teddy” Donahay, Free Men._  
_ ii. Jahan Shaddid, the Djinn._  
_ iii. Alfrizi Esposito, the new head of the Maroni crime family._  
_ iv. “Black Mask”, unknown name and affiliations._  
_ v. “Red Hood”, unknown name and affiliations._

_ H. Known Information _ _: The heroin shipped to Gotham has been found up and down the east coast. Several rival groups have been competing for control of the drug trade, resulting in a drawn-out gang-war. Police have attempted to trace the website with no results; see enclosed reports for—_

Setting down the papers, I rub my eyes again, trying to ease the throbbing and nausea that makes the world tilt on its side. No matter how hard I try, I can’t focus on what the words mean—it’s like they’re floating, jumbled up together and making my eyes hurt. Some click through—like my father’s name. This isn’t much different from the other jobs Naomi’s had me on before: Digital surveillance, hacking foreign interests, intel gathering, and digital forensic investigations are all something I’m intimately familiar with now. This isn’t any different, _but it is._

_Breathe. Slow down._

My chest burns. A painful arc goes up from the bottom of my ribs to just below my collarbone. I’m sweating, but I don’t want to take off my sweater. The skin feels like it’s tearing, even though I know it’s smooth and tight. My fingers go to it again, feeling the raised ridges through the fabric. That was a mistake—touching it. I get to the sink just in time to heave.

_“You’re all alone right now, aren’t you?”_

_It’s not real. _He’s_ not here—don’t be so weak. Breathe. Calm down._

This isn’t uncommon either. It blends with everything else—the hatred. The _constant _reminders. The memories I can’t shed. I grit my teeth to keep from screaming just like my neighbours were. If there was alcohol in here, I’d be downing half the bottle.

_Get some later._

_“Do you think _I’ll _ever leave you?”_

“Stop it, Miri. _Stop it,” _I growl, pulling at my hair like the pain will make the voice go away. That familiar smell of sweat and blood comes back and my chest heaves again. “It—it’s not real. _It’s not. _Breathe.”

It’s like I’m manually restarting my own heart but, just like before, I make myself move, looking for somewhere to rest that isn’t the dirty kitchen floor. Legs hitting sharp corners and elbows cracking against the walls, I find something that feels flat. Whether what I fall on face-first is a bed or couch doesn’t matter. It’s soft and it doesn’t smell like the hallway did, and I grab at my chest like I can take the scar into my hand and rip it off.

_But you can’t._

God knows I’ve tried. The new scars are proof enough.

I’m still spinning—gray walls becoming swirls of rainwater that drown me. Trying to concentrate on my heart—on the erratic, thrumming beat—I close my eyes and imagine that I’m somewhere far away from here, like I’m someone else entirely.

_Some habits never go away at all._

* * *

My new apartment is bathed in the street-lit night that pours through the naked windows. A small puddle of drool under my cheek and eyes heavy from sleep, I bolt upright, hissing when I pull a tendon in my neck. I don’t remember when, but I managed to fall asleep at some point. For how much my muscles ache, it must’ve been deep.

_Get up. You should eat something._

Ignoring the pooled shadows in the corners, I fumble around for a light switch. My new apartment is large for a studio suite, coming with a threadbare loveseat, a big bed that I managed to get to, and a high counter with two stools. Other than a heavy-looking wardrobe and a closet, there isn’t anything else.

_If they didn’t completely set you up, that means that they really don’t want you here long._

The thought gives me comfort, and it helps me drag myself off the duvet—slightly damp from the moisture coming from the rain pelting the windows and fogging up the glass close to the mattress. Searching through the cupboards in the small kitchen, I find nothing other than a small box of saltine crackers and a container of baking soda in the fridge.

Looking outside, the miserable weather makes me want to strip off, have a warm shower, and sleep more, but my stomach twists painfully. I haven’t eaten since I was at the Chicago airport.

_You need to eat._

That’s a new habit I’m forcing on myself: Eating regularly. Going another twelve hours without eating will make me more tired and weaker than I already feel.

_And you can’t allow that._

Resting my head against the cool granite of the kitchen counter, dossier papers shoved away, I keep thinking about my breathing, on taking deep inhales and longer exhales. It doesn’t matter how long I haven’t moved, the only goal to detach from the physical symptoms that are paralyzing me. I can’t be like this when I leave.

_None of it matters. Breathe and find something to eat. _That’s _what matters._

I have a goal, a mission. It makes the blurring of everything else easier. Bag on my shoulder and keys in my hand; grip on the railing as I go down the stairs and remembering the places the cab drove by on the way here, I focus on the objective. Meeting the determined points and moving on to the next. No room for thinking, no room for anything else.

It’s not until my sweater gets cold and heavy with rain that I zip up my jacket. Anyone who passes me by doesn’t have a face or a smell—they’re just another patch of colour, swallowed by the noise of the downpour. The lights of the signs over my head doesn't mean anything until I see “Romano’s Mini Mart”—a shop wedged in a small storefront of a large brick building spanning the rest of the block. The flashing “Open” sign is enough, and it isn’t until I’m out of the rain that I start to shiver. Blinking away the water, I realize I don’t remember how far I walked to get here.

_You can’t be an idiot here. Pay more attention._

Pushing what I can of my wet hair behind my ears, I scour the aisles, looking for anything that looks palatable, brushing past the other few customers in the narrow walkways. I’m almost to the processed-food-galore section but a tall man blocks the way. His broad shoulders and muscled arms make for an intimidating silhouette.

_Doesn’t matter. _

Swallowing and clearing the lump in my throat, I say, “Excuse me—"

A small TV plays by the front register, the store clerk glued to it as a suited news anchor drones on and interrupts whatever I was going to say to get the guy to move. The voice is familiar—informative with ill-hidden condescension. Salt and pepper hair with thick-rimmed glasses. A smarmy look on his face and a self-assured smile.

_Jack Ryder._

He was there in Wayne Enterprises when—

_Don’t think about it._

The back pocket of my jeans vibrates, making me jump before I can think about it. Abandoning the aisle altogether, I search for a private corner in the tiny store as the caller ID seems to glare at me in accusation.

_Alfred, why are you calling me now?_

I haven’t picked up his calls in weeks, barely answering his emails once every fortnight. There’s nowhere I can go without being overheard and going out in the rain isn’t an option.

_Just make it quick. Feed him something about work being busy._

It’s my go-to excuse, and I hope it isn’t too worn out as I slide my finger across the screen to accept the call. “Hey, Alfred,” I say, clearing my throat. I sound too cheery, fake. He can always tell when I’m being fake. “Um, look, right now isn’t great—”

_“Miri, are you back in Gotham?” _he asks.

My basket falls to the ground with a clatter, turning every eye in the store on me. Face burning, my shoulders hunch and I move along, picking up my basket and lowering my voice. “I—I really can’t talk right now—”

_“Miriam, please. Don’t say you think me a fool.” _He sounds tired, worried. Finding a corner by the coolers, I try to ignore the sensation that people are still staring at me, pulling the hood of my jacket closer around my face. _“Is it true?”_

I sigh and rub my forehead. Lying is something I told myself I wouldn’t do anymore and, for the most part, I haven’t. Dodging questions and changing the subject doesn’t count, but those aren’t options here anymore, either. He knows the truth, anyway. My money’s on Bruce—he’d have ways of knowing; he always does. I stare at my naked fingers, aching for what used to rest on them.

“Yeah, it’s… it’s true. Naomi has a job that I need to be here for.”

_“Why didn’t you say anything? We have a room here that—”_

Almost dropping the basket again, I pace, my vision warping the walls and making them close in on me. _“No.” _I wince, sounding too close to how I snapped at Zareen. “No—I… I don’t think I’m going to be here long.”

Alfred takes a deep breath. I can’t help but imagine what he looks like, how he’s probably by himself and Bruce is out… being Bruce. Or, _not _Bruce. _“Why won’t you come home?”_

The question hits me in the chest and my eyes water, threatening to spill over. I don’t want to tell him. Not here, not ever. I don’t want to explain how I couldn’t bear him seeing how different I am, seeing how, in every way, I’m not the same person he remembers. He would know why, and I don’t want to confront that either. I’ve spent eighteen months avoiding questions, judgement, pitying glances. I don’t want Alfred to look at me like that. And I don’t want to see Bruce, feel any of the memories he evokes.

_His _voice whispers in my ear, snaking back into my bones, _“What kind of _monster_ do ya think I am, Miri?”_

My stomach rolls and I sweat despite being stuck in a soaked sweater. The smell of gunpowder—_is it gunpowder?_—fills my airway. It’s hard to inhale and I need to leave. The voice in my ear transforms, taking on the accent I’ve known my whole life. Alfred’s still talking, trying to convince me of something.

“I-I really have to go,” I interrupt, grabbing a six-pack of beer from one of the coolers—not caring what brand it is—and a cheap bottle of wine before heading to the front counter.

_“Miriam, please meet me for a coffee. There’s a lovely place in the Fashion District—a new patisserie and café." _I can hear him, but it’s like his voice is coming from the end of a long tunnel.

“Alfred—”

_“Please, dear, do this old man a kindness and meet me?” _he asks.

I’m at the front of the line, dumping out my random assortment of food and alcohol onto the counter as the clerk scans them. Telling him “no” would be easier, but I know I can’t avoid him forever.

“OK, Alfred—alright. Where is—”

My phone drops out of my hand and smacks against the floor. There’s a new image on the TV screen, and it’s not Jack Ryder. It’s me—_I’m_ on the TV.

_“Let’s _begin, _shall we?”_

It’s that old photo—the one they published another lifetime ago after the bank robbery. The one that’s followed me around. I look so different now—some spark missing and gone. But it’s not even my face, how my sternum is unmarked and so much skin shows—it’s the dress I’m wearing in the picture. There are voices talking to me, I think—but all I can see now is the ribbon running along the bottom of the photo.

_ACCOMPLICE OR VICTIM? NEW INSIGHTS INTO GOTHAM’S BONNIE AND CLYDE_

_‘Bonnie and Clyde’? They… Do they think I wanted to do any of that? That I… we were—_

My anger and outrage at the insinuation that he and I were—that I was there by choice—are shoved to the side when my picture goes up alongside another. One of a man with short, dirty blond hair, black, dilated pits for eyes, and an extended smirk as he stares into the camera. It’s the Joker from his first day during his trial. After downing a few shots, I managed to watch parts of it on YouTube. I threw it all up afterward and called in sick for two days. It’s like I’m frozen—like he’s here with me again. That tilt of his head, the knowing look on his face—like he still has secrets to tell me. His breath on my shoulder, moving my hair.

_“I don’t like many people—_at all. _But you—_you’re _fun.”_

When a hand lands on my shoulder, I don’t think twice. I grab and twist, pirouetting around and hitting the bastard right in the jaw.

_Not again—it won’t happen again—no, no, no, you won’t let it, you _won’t_—_

I’m about to hit him again when I realize what I’ve done. Too late reality finds me. I couldn’t have been hitting the Joker because he’s in Arkham. No, the man whose forearm I’m gripping and face I just hit isn’t Joker at all. Horror hits me like a blow to the stomach.

“Shit, didn’t expect to get cold-cocked for giving a lady her phone back,” the man says. It’s the same one who was blocking the aisle. He’s taller than me by at least three inches, a large red hoodie fails to hide his powerful build, and a gray backpack’s slung across his shoulder. Amongst the mess of black hair is a small streak of white at his widow’s peak. 

Looking down, I see that he _is _holding my phone. Embarrassment and shame make my skin hot when my eyes find the reddening patch of skin where my fist connected with his jaw. He’s grinning like I didn’t hit him at all, leaning down to meet my eyes.

He’s not the only one looking at me. The clerk—the other customers in the store—they’re all staring at me with their mouths wide open. This might be Gotham but seeing someone punch a man who looks like _that _in the face unprovoked is certainly something new. Grabbing my phone and holding my bag tight, I back away.

“I-I’m sorry—I—I didn’t mean to. I was—”

_I was what? Scared because a man locked up miles away might’ve on some slim chance found me in a store in the middle of a city of ten million? That I’m so off my rocker that my first response is to hit first and think later? _

They’re still staring, brows furrowing as their expressions go from shocked to… something else.

_Get out. Leave—_now.

“I—I’m sorry,” I say again before making a quick exit, all but breaking out into a sprint.

Wind and rain pelt into me, but I don’t care. The streetlights aren’t bright enough for me to tell where I’m going, but that doesn’t matter either. Hands crawl along my stomach, touching my neck. I thought I at least banished these feelings after the last time, but they’re coming back so hard it’s like it’s actually happening, the past becoming an afterimage that’s transposing real life.

_“What’s the matter, love? Just lie back, you’ll enjoy it soon enough.”_

I stop and lean against the brick, cradling my head in my hands. “It isn’t real. You’re OK. You’re fine,” I say, repeating it over and over. It doesn’t do anything—doesn’t take away the voices or the smells or the feeling that my body isn’t mine. It’s being reclaimed, torn away and becoming a familiar prison. It hasn’t been like this in months. I was getting _better. _It didn’t feel this bad, but now it’s like I can’t breathe—

“Hey, you don’t look so good.”

Barely muffling a shriek, I stagger away from the voice, trying to get into a defensive stance and falling against the wall instead.

_Weak. You’re still too weak._

“Leave me alone,” I say, backing away from the dark shape, my eyes still not working out what’s real and what isn’t. “I-I’m fine. _I’m fine.” _

I’m fumbling so bad I almost trip, but the shape throws up a pair of hands, moving into the light. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” he says. When I see his face—sharp, square jaw, a nose that’s probably been broken a few times, and a bright pair of blue eyes—I almost run again. It’s the man I hit in the store. “I wanted—”

“I’m sorry I hit you, but fuck off,” I snarl, finally finding my feet. 

_He’s going to hurt you. Think, calm down. _

The man is bigger than me, but if I get in a shot to his throat— 

“Whoa there, darlin’. No need to be hostile.” He doesn’t move back but he doesn’t come forward, either. When he holds up a plastic bag, I see it’s full of the things I abandoned on the store counter. “I’m not here for anything other than to make sure you don’t collapse in a fucking gutter somewhere. There's no hard feelings, scout’s honour.” 

His hand goes over his heart, and a crooked grin pulls at his mouth. He sounds sincere; his face doesn’t hold any malice despite how the skin around his jaw starts to swell. He’s just standing here, body not positioned to retaliate. When he extends the bag toward me, I take it and stop myself from bolting. 

“Don’t call me that.” Just because he looks nice doesn’t mean he is. The pet name makes my skin ripple—memories come back up to kick at my knees. Even if it’s empty, I hold onto the anger—my first line of defence. 

“Call you what?” he asks, grin disappearing. 

“‘Darling’. Don’t call me that,” I say, looking up and down the street. 

_He might not be alone. There’s an alley ten feet away and you don’t know this neighbourhood— _

“What would you like me to call you?” His voice interrupts my thoughts, and I pull back, looking to see if he started inching closer when my head was turned. Air comes in easier when I see he hasn’t moved. 

“Mi—” I clamp my mouth shut quick. 

_He would’ve seen the news playing just like you. You can’t use your first name. Not in this city. _

“Adina. My name is Adina,” I say instead. It’s my middle name, and thinking of an entirely new one on the spot is stupid—it makes me liable to forget or not answer to it. But I still hesitated, and I hope he doesn’t question it. 

“Nice to meet you, Adina_,” _he says, his smile returning and widening a fraction. “Can I talk with you for a minute without worrying you’re going to sucker punch me again?” 

He’s still smiling in good humour, but my face and neck go hot again, the shame hitting me like a slap. “N-No, I won’t.” My gaze falls to the sidewalk, staring at my soaked sneakers and pant legs. Peeling any of this off to shower won’t be fun later. “I am sorry about that. I… wasn’t thinking straight.”

_Understatement of the year. _

He could have me charged with assault if he wanted. He should be angry with me. 

_Then why isn’t he? _

“What’s bothering you then?” 

Involuntarily my hand goes to my chest, giving the appearance of pulling my jacket closer but actually trying to stop the flare of burning that comes from the scar. 

_Don’t think about it. You can’t think about it here. _

“Long day.”

That’s not a lie, and it’s the simplest answer I can offer. His laugh surprises me. It’s loud and deep, coming from his chest and managing to sound… almost self-deprecating. Like there’s an inside joke I’m missing. 

“Shit, I’ve had plenty of those and I don’t go around punching random strangers.”

He’s right. What I did wasn’t a normal response—it was extreme and unnecessary. Any other person would be furious, shouting at me and questioning my sanity. 

_Again, why isn’t he doing that? _

Leaving would be the smart option. My teeth chatter together, the cold finally seeping through far enough for my body to respond without me registering its cause completely. “Thank you… for grabbing this for me,” I say, holding up the bag of groceries. “How much do I owe you?”

Nothing about him sets off alarm bells in my head. He’s strong, that much is clear in the way he carries his weight, how he holds his shoulders back. It reminds me of Naomi—the rigid posture trained into her that she couldn’t entirely hide. 

He adjusts his hood, wiping away the small rivers of rain trailing down his face. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, waving a hand at me when I pull out my wallet. He stops when an idea seems to strike him. “Or, you can buy me some waffles. There’s a good place two blocks back that’ll blow your fuckin’ _mind_. It’ll get you out of the rain—”

“No.” It’s not something I have to second guess. Going anywhere is dangerous—an invitation for some nasty surprise, no matter how genuine he seems. Either he’s hiding his anger or doesn’t feel it right now, but pissing him off for real is a bad idea. My mind’s racing, but I force my voice to stay even. “I really need to get back to my place. Just—how much do I owe you?” I ask again, pulling out two twenty-dollar bills from my wallet. 

His eyebrows go up in surprise, but he raises his hands again in supplication. “You look like you’re about to fall over, that’s all. What’s left of my conscience won’t let you walk home alone at this time of night in the rain.” Once again he seems sincere and I doubt myself. “It _is _Gotham we’re talking about.”

_Yeah, and it’s _because _it’s Gotham that I’m not following you anywhere. _

“I don’t know you.” Stating the obvious shouldn’t be necessary. Who just invites a crazy person who just punched them for _waffles? _He doesn’t seem to be trying to push me anywhere—all I see is concern, but I’ve learned that what I see doesn’t always match up with what’s really there. 

Sighing, he pulls back his hood and runs his fingers through his hair, the white streak pushed back with the rest. “Fair enough,” he admits, looking down the street. I follow his gaze, expecting to find someone else behind me, but we’re the only ones here. “How ‘bout this then—you buy me a hot dog from that vendor right over there—” he says, pointing a block down in the direction I came from, “and I walk you to your street? I don’t even have to see what building’s yours, I just want to make sure you get there, is all.”

The light catches his eyes, making them brighter than they were before. I still don’t find anything hidden—no underlying motive. The feeling of hands crawling up my sides dulls, the voice easing away. 

_It’s… maybe it’s not a bad idea to have some company. _

Someone a lot worse could come along if that happens to me again. Walking with him is risky, but it’ll also potentially save me the trouble of walking alone or taking the pains to find a decent cab. 

_He hasn’t done anything yet… just keep your guard up. _

“I guess I’m hungry, too,” I say after a while, thinking of my empty stomach. “And _just _to my street.” My voice is firm—not like it’ll make a difference if it turns out he’s crazier than I am—and I start walking, hugging my arms close as I head to the vendor he pointed out. 

“You’ve got it,” he says, catching up with me but maintaining a good two feet between us. 

The rain eases up, slowing to a trickle, and I push my hood back, too. We don’t say anything when we get to the vendor, only my voice breaking the silence when I order us both hot dogs and bitter coffee that I drink anyway because it’s warm. He finishes before I even get halfway, and I give a sidelong glare when he laughs at the look of surprise on my face. It strikes a chord in my chest, deep and aching. 

_Parker would’ve done the same. _

The thought is unwelcome; it isn’t helpful here. I spent a long time grieving for Parker, finding occasional solace when I’d call Soo-ah to check-in, and I still catch myself thinking of things we would’ve done together—stupid jokes he would’ve made. For a second, it’s like he’s the one walking with me, like he never left. 

“Hey—earth to Adina.” 

Jumping back at the hand waving in front of my face, I nearly drop my coffee all over myself. It’s strange to hear that name out loud, but I nod along, calming my heart with willpower alone. 

_Breathe. Don’t think about that. Just a while longer. Wait until you’re back in that shithole and then you can cry. _

“Lost in thought,” I force out, shaking my head and walking ahead, arms cinching around my chest tighter. 

He doesn’t pry and I’m grateful, only grunting his understanding. Even with everything else hitting me, I don’t feel afraid of him. That’s strange, too. I’ve been on high alert with almost everyone ever since… then. 

_So what makes him different? _

He draws in a breath like he’s going to speak, but I don’t want to hear his questions, so I come up with my own; one that should’ve been one of the first that I asked. “You didn’t tell me your name.” 

His mouth closes and the wry grin returns, transforming into a smirk as he rubs at his jaw. “Jason.” 

The only response I give is a nod and it seems to be enough. We keep walking in silence, the rain stopping completely; replaced with the sounds of cars driving by and voices coming from the surrounding windows, the streets seem almost… peaceful. It’s not an attribute I thought I would give Gotham but, right now, it fits. 

Without my noticing, the distance between us closes until his arm is close to brushing against mine. Clearing my throat and drawing away, I clue in that we’ve come to—what I think is—my street. 

“This is me,” I say, coming to a stop and edging away from him.

“Then that’s my cue.” With a grin and a wink, he gives me a two-fingered salute, turning to leave. I’m about to walk in the opposite direction when he turns again, face alight with another idea. My stomach tightens.

_Here it comes. _

Any light expression on my face is gone, replaced with a wary stare. Jason comes up short of stopping in front of me, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Well, fuck. You’re making me feel like a creep when you look at me like that, Adina.”

“Are you one? A creep?” I ask, angling myself sideways. Something tells me he isn’t, but I won’t take any chances.

“Aw, fuck me. No—no, I’m not. Goddamnit, that doesn’t sound very convincing right now—”

“No, it doesn’t.” 

I still sound cold—_good—_and Jason seems to trip over his words, the easy smile turning into a grimace, deepening the dimples and accentuating the sharp lines of his cheekbones. 

“Fucking—_fuck_,” he says, looking skyward. “What the hell. At the risk of sounding like a total shitbag, I wanna know you made it home without falling down a set of stairs or something. Would you be willing to text me that you got in alright?”

The request strikes me mute for a moment. There’s still… nothing but sincerity. But that can’t be right—that just _doesn’t _happen. Not anywhere, and definitely not in a place like Gotham. 

“Why do you care?” I ask. Jason seems confused by the question, his eyebrows furrowing like I didn’t just speak English. “I mean, I don’t know you. I _hit you_ in the face—”

“Because I know how it feels to have a bad day. And make a few fuckups at, er, inopportune times,” he interjects. I didn’t notice, but he’s standing close to me—close enough that I can smell his aftershave mixed with the rain. “And because—correct me if I’m wrong, Adina—you were having a rough time.” 

_He isn’t wrong. And I hate that anyone could tell. _

All of that work—learning how to fight, keeping everyone and everything at arm's length, doing what Naomi asked even though it made me question everything I’ve ever thought about my country, my home—it seems like it was for nothing. I’m still scared, still trying to hide, still wanting to run away. 

_None of it worked, did it? _

It took so little to pull the tenuous constructs I built down. He’s right and it makes me angry—but only with myself. 

“Vulnerability means someone’s out there looking to take advantage. You look like you’ve had enough of that, yeah?” he asks, voice going low. His eyes search mine, looking for something to prove him wrong. But he isn’t. It… almost feels like I know him— 

_Don’t be stupid, Miri. He doesn’t know anything. Are you that desperate for a shoulder to cry on? _

_Pathetic. _

Blinking hard, I back away until I can’t smell him anymore. “But why do _you_ care?” I ask again, avoiding his gaze even though I know he’s staring at me. “You don’t know _anything _about me. I’m just—I’m a stranger.” 

“Yeah. But why _shouldn’t _I care?” 

Once again, I can’t find anything to say. He said it like it was a matter of fact, as if the notion of having to justify caring about the wellbeing of someone else is absurd. It makes me doubt why I questioned his intentions. 

_You _know _why. People aren’t who they say they are. _

“Are you willing to text me, Adina? You can say no—I won’t push either way,” he asks gently. It’s only now that I admit to myself that I think he’s good looking and it’s likely clouding my judgement in ways it shouldn’t. But I _want _to believe him; I want someone to prove me wrong. 

_Please don’t make me regret this._

“OK,” I say, managing to break eye contact and push the damp strands of hair from my face behind my ears. “I’ll send you a text.”

Jason smiles and it’s different—unpretentious and big. He holds out his hand, allowing me to see his knuckles are more bruised than mine, and I pull out my phone, wincing when I see how bad the screen cracked. After I pull up the contacts app and he types in his name and number, he gives it back and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his cargo pants. 

“Might be being too forward again,” he says, taking on a maverick gleam, “but feel free to… call me. Or text. Whatever.”

_Is he… no. That’s definitely… no, that’s not right. He can’t be hitting on the crazy woman. _

“What do you mean?” I ask, skepticism returning. 

He chuckles and shrugs his shoulders, looking cockier than he did before. “I mean, I’d like to see you again. If you want to, that is.” My mouth opens and nothing comes out, looking down at my phone like it’s a bomb that’s about to go off. “You know how to get a hold of me now. I’d say ‘don’t be a stranger’, but that’s kinda the point, ain’t it? So… let’s try _not _being strangers.”

He’s looking at me expectantly, waiting for an answer. But I don’t have one. Exhaustion saps the thoughts and words away. I want to tell him that he won’t hear from me again, but… I’m undecided if I want that to be true. 

“Goodnight, Jason,” is all I say. Any thought of looking behind to make sure he didn’t stop to see where I live leaves my head, and I just keep walking, ignoring the plastic digging into my arm, heavy from the bottle of wine and pack of beer. 

It doesn’t take me long to get to my floor, and somehow I remember the instructions Zareen gave me to get my lock open. It’s with that same mechanical detachment as before that I peel off my jacket and jeans, shivering as I lock myself in the apartment bathroom. My phone’s still in my hand, and when I open the screen, his contact icon stares at me. 

_Texting him is stupid. Right? _

There’s a lot that someone like me can do with just a phone number and a first name. It wouldn’t be hard to find something if I really wanted. I know I need to call Alfred back, but that seems like more than I can take in one night. 

_Call him tomorrow. _

My slow, numb fingers type out a message, hitting “send” before I can think too hard about it. 

**Thanks again. Made it in OK.**

A reply comes within seconds and I feel… relief, almost. 

**Thx. Night, Adina. **

It’s an innocent reply. No pushy requests, no barrage of messages. Throwing my phone into the discarded pile of clothes, I pull off the sweater I’ve been wearing all day. Summer is coming soon, and I won’t have thick clothes to hide behind anymore—not comfortably, anyway. I wanted to avoid looking at it, but it’s like I can’t help myself. 

_“C’mon now, we know you _do_ deserve it, though, don’t we?” _

The slash of bright pink is all my eyes find. The rough arc that hooks under my right breast and goes up the middle of my ribs, dividing me in two. The scar _he _left isn’t the only one. I made it worse—adding my own marks where I tried to alter what he’d done. Disguising it proved impossible. He cut so deep that whatever I was willing to do to myself wouldn’t be enough. It looks like someone hacked at my chest—the scars thick and raised, angry and defiant—and they won’t go anywhere. 

The feelings that Jason brought with him are gone. Hands pull at my skin again, making my throat tight like someone’s squeezing. It’s like there are fingers in my hair, tugging on it and digging into the old scars on the back of my head. It makes me feel weak, pathetic—but I finally allow myself to sit on the floor, head in my hands, and cry. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to [Khaosprinz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khaosprinz/pseuds/Khaosprinz) and [LittleSnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleSnow/pseuds/LittleSnow) so much for reading this over, and I'll be back again in a couple of weeks ❤.


	3. Target

Nighttime in Gotham was a funny thing. From above, it looked like any other godforsaken shithole city occupying the planet—dirty, too many people in such a condensed area, sucking in power to fuel its light while polluting the rivers with its waste. Up close it wasn't much different either: Drug lackeys making deals, pimps beating their whores, girls too damn young turning out tricks, and then there were the motherfuckers who made it all happen. The latter in particular were what caught Red Hood's attention.

Red Hood had a funny way of making friends. The duffel bag hanging from his shoulder, tapping against his hip with the rhythm of his steps and its contents surprisingly heavy, was proof enough. He had been building up to this moment for months with careful planning. Taking in the loose gangs and bringing them under one banner, claiming territory one block at a time—blood paving the way with each ceded street—and monitoring the competition was hard work. It had taken him more than a year, but Red Hood was ready.

_Time to go to war, _he thought_._

It was a cliché, he knew, but an abandoned warehouse on the three-way border of his territory in Crime Alley, the Bowery, and Burnley—an important cross-section that meant controlling the Narrows—was the meeting spot he'd chosen. Currently, the Narrows was held by his main adversary, but within two months, it would be _his_.

_Goddamn right._

And then it would be on to the rest of Gotham's rotting carcass.

_One step at a time._

Despite his heavy combat boots, Red Hood's footfalls were silent, barely rattling the catwalk he trod upon. He was shrouded in the dark—a helpful trick he'd learned from watching a certain Bat-freak in action—but he didn't need a light to see; his domino mask with its night vision was enough. He didn't have to go far to hear a cacophony of raised voices, getting louder as they sniped at one another. Adjusting the AR-15 in his grip, he stood watch, leaning over the railing, as the puppets below nipped at each other's throats.

"No one fuckin' invited you, Teddy," one of the men said, his red face a stark contrast against the white shock of thinning hair.

_Warren White. Small-time smuggler and whacko extraordinaire. No empire of his own, he's always riding on the coattails of a bigger fish._

"Are you blind or just obtuse? Obviously, _someone _did, you ignoramus," said Teddy, a fat cigar hanging out of his mouth and a steady glare coming out from under a pair of thick eyebrows.

_Theodore "Teddy" Donahay. Leader of the Free Men and one of the longest-running crime bosses. Also moonlights as a bottom feeder and the face of the Irish Mob in Gotham, and—where would we be without the stereotypes—a raging alcoholic._

"Big words for a motherfuckin' _potato head_," Warren snapped, face getting redder.

"What the _fuck _did you call me?"

The arguing rose until individual voices were difficult to distinguish as they echoed upward. But Red Hood listened intently.

"Whoever decided to invite you _buffoons _is certainly off their meds," Mei interjected quietly, her voice drowned out by the raging testosterone threatening to spill over into a fistfight as a manicured finger wrapped around a lock of black hair.

_Mei Tzu, head of the Gotham branch of the Triads. Smart and savvy. Probably the most useful out of all these idiots. One of the best distributors of heroin in the city._

Red Hood had to stifle a laugh. To him, their bickering was a byproduct of a master leaving their dogs unattended. Because that's what they were: _dogs_.

"You're asking the wrong questions. If it's not _our _meeting, then whose is it?" asked another man, quiet up until that point. He spoke with an accent and wore large pants to cover up a leg brace as he glared down Teddy.

_Jahan Shaddid. Leader of the Djinn—a wasted effort. Making his pathetic comeback in arms deals and, until throwing away seventy percent of his cut, he was on the verge of dying out._

And, as far as Red Hood was concerned, that was still a possibility.

"I thought this was offer to join Black Mask," said another man with a thick Russian accent. His head was shaved and probably shined with a buffer for how it seemed to refract every bit of light in the place like a goddamn lighthouse.

_Vasily Kosov. Distant cousin of the Dimitrovs and the new head of what's left of their 'family'. Specializes in prostitution._

Red Hood's mouth twitched under his mask, almost curling into a sneer. If he didn't need them, he would've shot them all in the head and been done with the matter.

"If you could see where the tide is turning, you'd throw in with Black Mask," Mei said, jerking her chin up so she could look at everyone down her thin nose.

Red Hood stayed immobile at the mention of the competition, turning his head in curiosity. This might've been a meet he orchestrated, but intel was always valuable in his line of work.

"He's the only one who's been even _slightly _effective against the Bat. The police might've been scrambling before, but how much longer do you think that's gonna last? That bitch Hill's cracking down, Batman's hitting harder, and if you want to survive in this city—"

"Then it _is_ your meetin'—"

"No, you idiot, I just finished saying—"

"Fuck all of youse. I'm gone—if you wanna stick around for nothin' be my guest—"

Fingers were being pointed, accusations thrown around until the tension escalated to a boiling point.

_Good thing they left the guns and knives with the mooks at the door._

It was _also _a good thing that Red Hood killed them and took the weapons for himself. None of them were getting out of this unless he wanted them to.

_Seems time to lock and load to me._

Pulling back the operating rod and flicking off the safety, Red Hood steadied his stance and fired over the heads of the gathered group below. Screams and chairs being knocked over were barely audible over the spray of bullets landing in the stained wood of the table as he emptied an entire magazine. Even through the faceguard, the smell of gunpowder filled his nose—it was an old and familiar one that seemed to be infused into his bones, something he'd never be able to take away.

_"What the shit—!"_ Teddy yelled, face red and sweaty with fear.

_Good. Best to keep it that way._

"It's _my _meeting. I invited you," Red Hood called out from above, placing a foot on the bottom rung of the railing of the catwalk and hoisting his gun back to rest on his shoulder. Only glimpses of the faceguard were visible, but he smiled when the flash of red was enough to make the cretins below panic.

"You have a death wish or somethin'? There are easier ways to kill yourself than this, pal," Warren said, recovering quicker than the others. But his legs still shook, hand reaching for his side holsters reflexively, remembering too late that he left his gun at the front door.

"Yeah. Like mouthing off to the guy with the semi-automatic." Red Hood made a show of changing the magazine, flashing that he had five more attached to the thick belt around his waist. "Listen up, fucktrumpets, and listen _good: _I'm offering you a deal."

The morons below looked at one another but still took a seat, righting their fallen chairs and glancing at the many bullet holes splintering the wood table between them. But they _were _paying attention, acting just like Red Hood thought they would. People like them _were _dogs—they wanted to run their own worlds, sure, but they were easy to bring to heel when there was a voice louder than theirs laying down the law of the land.

"You're all that's left of the old heart of crime in Gotham. Drug peddling scumbags, lecherous toads, and gun-toting morons—but you've done fairly well for yourselves, haven't you?"

The voice modifier built into his faceguard made it even deeper than his own, inhuman—almost robotic with hints of the real thing peeking through. It always gave the desired effect: Making his targets unsettled, wary. And—just as he saw from his studies of the Bat—afraid. But they had a whole lot of other reasons to fear him more than they did Batman.

_Fear isn't enough._

"I'm going to be running things from now on. _Everything. _You'll run the basic operations as usual, with a few exceptions, and you _will _kick up forty-percent to me. That is a _much _better deal than Black Mask will give you."

The people below exchanged glances but said nothing. Red Hood wasn't wrong—he _knew _he wasn't. Black Mask was asking for seventy-percent. _Seventy. _If there was one thing that got these people's attention, it was money. Or, specifically, their ability to make more of it. They were simple and so was Black Mask: It's what made them easy to fight against and _win. _Not all of his adversaries were like that.

_Only two._

"In return, you'll have protection from both Black Mask and Batman."

_That _caused a rising of voices again, people looking up at him, disbelieving, and confirming that they heard right with their neighbour. Red Hood was being serious. He didn't work up to all of this for so long to have it crumble because he didn't have a backbone. No, he was ready and Black Mask was going to feel Red Hood's boot on the back of his neck soon enough.

_Then onto the next targets._

There was a chain—a strategy—that would lead to success. And, so far, he had nothing to prove his methods wrong.

"The clown offered a similar deal. He wanted half in exchange for killing the Bat—and look where that got us," Warren said, pulling at his collar and leaning further back in his seat.

Vasily crossed himself, muttering in Russian under his breath as the others at the table looked grim. Saying he could keep off the Bat was a big claim, but Red Hood was still operating unimpeded—and had been successful in evading the Dark Knight and a good deal of attention for over a year, barring recent developments, and still expanding. That was more than any of them, including Black Mask, could claim.

Red Hood had retroactively learned of the Joker's initial offer, when he had been useless in a hospital bed across the ocean as he watched his city burn. It had been these _worms _that unleashed the madman—had let him terrorize millions and sat back, waiting to get fat off the fear, until things hadn't worked out so well for them either. Red Hood almost wanted to thank the Joker for that—for landing a bigger blow against the organized crime groups in the city than anyone else had ever managed to do. He still might as he slit the clown's throat.

_That'll be what comes at the end. But first, he'll know what "suffering" really means._

"Do I _look _like that clown to you? Don't tell me you haven't heard of me," he said, swinging his gun around to rest the barrel in his hand. It was important to keep reminding them of who had the advantage here—and it wasn't them.

"We've heard plenty," Shaddid said, keeping his head down.

Red Hood had to laugh. They would've been stupid to not know who he was. And that meant they knew what he could do—and it didn't involve blowing up hospitals, mowing down his partners, turning the city into a boiling pot of murderous mobs killing without thought and torturing the innocent. The latter two in particular struck a nerve. It made him angry and eager to act, but he'd managed to be patient. He did nothing the clown had. No, Red Hood was relatively quiet about his work. But the right people still got the message—he'd made sure of that—and now was the time to be _loud._

"Good. Then you know I'm not fucking around."

They knew what he could do, but they didn't _really_ know—not deep in their bones. Not yet. Most of his moves had been against the lower level enforcers, taking them out as he expanded his territory and took in their rivals. The threat was still too far from home.

_Not for long._

"I hope you paid attention, half-wits, 'cause here's the catch: Stay away from kids and schoolyards. No dealing to or with children—if you do, _you're dead. _You sick fucks with the unwilling and underage girls working for you, _that stops. No exceptions. _You don't follow the rules, and I'll know. _Every. Time. _Do I need to repeat any of that?"

Only a beat of silence passed before their expressions changed, taking on the look of smug superiority that twisted their faces. They thought having rules that didn't actively fuck over the vulnerable made him weak—someone they could leverage. But they didn't know what Red Hood did—what he _could _do when the mission called for it.

_Bathe the city in blood to wash away the filth. Do everything necessary._

"Uh, OK, _crazy _man. This is all very generous, but have you lost your fuckin' _mind?! _Why the fuck should we listen to youse?" It was Warren shouting again. Red Hood almost wished they could see his smile—how the edges curled and his eyes hardened. He laughed again.

_I'm glad he asked._

Hoisting the heavy bag over the railing, Red Hood threw it onto the table below. The smell was the first clue, but when they pulled back the zipper and had a good look at some of their best-paid employees, the reactions ranged from dry heaving, frozen shock, to straight-up terror.

"Holy _shit—"_

"Inside are all the heads of your lieutenants. That took me _two _hours. You wanna see what I can get done in a _whole evening?"_

He knew the answer already—they don't want to see what would come for them. They might be the new heads of their gangs, but they were only half-baked replacements for the old cats in the game. They didn't have the stomach or the experience to outlast the ugly of Gotham because they didn't understand her. And they never would.

Leaping over the edge of the railing, Red Hood landed on the table, the duffle bag between his feet, with a loud _bang _that shocked the others into flinching backward. They _really _looked afraid then. Red Hood did make for a bloody sight—one that would be seared into their brains permanently. Red mask and eyes that seemed to almost glow, a large dagger strapped to his thigh and two handguns that they could see, and the titular red hood pulled over to hide the upper part of his face in shadow. The bloodstains on his brown jacket—fresh from his task of relieving the scum underneath him of their heads—were enough of a reminder that he did his own work, and that "mercy" was a word he refused to know. He hoisted up his gun, turning to look at them each in turn. They couldn't see his eyes with the domino mask on, and that was fine by him.

"I'm not Black Mask, and I'm not Batman. My rules are simple, but you fuck with them and it won't end well. I'm not exactly the forgiving type."

None of them were staring at him anymore. They looked at the heads, trying to figure out who was who—attempting to determine if they'd died in agony or not, but none of them asked because they knew the answer.

_Yeah, they did._

"_Ya dumayu, chto ty sumasshedshiy," _Vasily muttered, hand over his mouth.

Red Hood's Russian was rusty, but he was fairly certain that it was at least part of an insult.

"Make no mistake: I'm not _asking _you to kick in with me." His voice scraped out in a low growl, artificial and guttural. Slowly, their eyes dragged back up as he levelled his gun at them. _"I'm telling you."_

He wasn't aiming to hit them and that, too, had its desired effect when he pulled the trigger, firing over their heads. They fell to the floor and screamed, covering their heads and begging for Red Hood to spare them from getting their own personal bullet to the skull. They didn't need to beg for long—by the time they had the wits to lower their arms, Red Hood was already gone.

* * *

_Why am I here?_

Batman often came after a long patrol, sometimes only leaving just in time for the sun to peek out over the horizon and filter through the trees. It became an unconscious habit, something he had found himself doing the motions of—making the right turns, following the winding roads, hiding behind the same line of trees—for months. Sometimes he wasn't even careful about getting caught. He just had to be there, to make sure.

The twenty-foot electric fences of Arkham Asylum didn't hide an outsider's ability to see the grounds, but they did make it harder to catch any glimpses inside. He'd long given up on using his amplifier—something was in the walls to nullify any capability to hear what was going on inside without being in the building itself or having access to their systems. That didn't stop him from observing.

Security at the Asylum was top of the line—expensive and well-funded by the taxpayers of Gotham; Arianna Hill made sure of that. And as more criminals and mentally ill were sent to Arkham Asylum under the city's newfound fear of any mind they didn't understand increased, so did the amount of security at the compound. The TYGER guards that paced the perimetre, holding their guns and looking more like a paramilitary group, were worrisome. A private security company that won the bid to enforce the city's prisons, form an emergency response taskforce and guard Arkham Asylum, Hill was taking extreme measures to ensure that what happened a year and a half before never did again. A mixture of ex-military and SWAT operatives that was too well-armed to be an indicator of anything good, Hill's new bolstering of the police focused more on punishment than preventing the crimes in the first place.

Despite the worrying signs building to something bigger he couldn't quite discern, Batman had no reason yet to risk going in. He also didn't have a reason to hide in the shadows and waste time that could've been spent patrolling, tracking down the leaders fuelling the upcoming gang war that could swallow them. But, night after night, he couldn't go back to the Manor without knowing.

The Joker was still inside, and he wasn't getting out.

That's what Batman repeated to himself, letting it be enough when he wanted to see it with his own eyes. He thought about him more than he wanted to since the Joker had been admitted—since his trial had begun and been postponed _twice. _First to gather new evidence and then again because of a failed psychiatric evaluation. And he couldn't help but think about the last time he'd seen him—the blood and pain and the crumbling of _everything _that mattered. It was _gone _and he couldn't touch the man responsible. And he couldn't tell if that was a good thing or not.

A small beep in his comms unit alerted him to the incoming call. Batman was glad for the opportunity to think about something else, turning away from the Asylum and getting back in the newest version of the Tumbler. "Speak."

_"Hello to you, too, Mr. Wayne," _Lucius said, sounding blasé and forging on like Batman had given a proper greeting,_ "Afraid I have some bad news—"_

"You couldn't crack the encryption," Batman finished, starting the Tumbler and beginning the drive back to Gotham. He forced his mind away from the Asylum to the present—to the real, _pressing_ problems.

_"No. And, to be honest, it would likely take me several weeks even if I did have a clue about how to do it." _Batman's mouth pulled back into a thin line, fingers tightening around the steering wheel. He wasn't the only one who was frustrated; Lucius sighed on the other end of the line. _"Something tells me we don't have that kind of time."_

"No, we don't."

They really didn't. There was no telling when they'd find another body, or even where the others came from. This was only one lead; Batman was still searching through missing persons databases in an attempt to find something concrete. If they were dealing with a serial killer, then it was only a matter of time before the bodies would be stacking up without a suspect. He couldn't help but think about the victims—their expressions of terror.

_What did they see before they died? Who was pumping them full of psychotropic drugs? What was the purpose of holding them in conditions that would cause those ailments? _

The only person that Batman could think of getting off on that level of fear was Jonathan Crane. But that was an impossibility. He was in Arkham—locked up tight just like the Joker was. And, if everything went right, they'd stay in there and get the help they sorely needed while the rest of the world—and Batman—could breathe easier.

_"What are the other options, then?" _Lucius asked.

There were no easy answers to that question. Batman couldn't break the code on the chip and neither could Lucius. They had no other real leads, and Gordon was trusting him to have something to show for his interference. Batman could dedicate more time to this, see about bringing in someone else and risking them asking questions, or he could do something he really didn't want to.

"Miriam's back in Gotham."

Batman had to give Lucius credit—he only missed a single beat in between a sharp intake of breath.

_"Why?"_

"She told Alfred it was for work." He didn't say that he hadn't mustered the courage to ask her himself. The urge to see her as soon as her plane landed, something he had checked out but didn't act on, had been strong—almost enough to overcome his guilt. He knew the longer he left it the worse it would be.

_"You haven't spoken to her?" _Confusion was evident in his voice, and Batman didn't want to address his own inadequacies with Lucius.

"She might be able to—"

_"Do I have to tell you all the ways in which that is a _terrible _idea?" _Lucius rushed to interject. As much as Batman wanted to, he couldn't say Lucius was wrong.

"Lucius." He didn't like doing this in particular, but he didn't feel bad about it either. Lucius would do what he was asked, everytime, because he trusted that Batman would make the right decisions. His judgement wouldn't be compromised, not for anything. "Do you think she could? Given the right resources—"

_"You'll have to ask her yourself. Technically, she's not allowed anywhere near this place. And, frankly, I'm not sure I want her here either way."_

Batman sighed. Wayne Enterprises was Lucius' domain, and he couldn't blame Lucius for feeling that way—not after what happened, the aftermath and what he saw. Lucius had a brief—but telling—glimpse into the twenty-four hour period when Miriam had been missing. He told himself that he didn't ask for Miriam's benefit, leaving the opportunity for her to tell him what she wanted. But that wasn't entirely true; Batman was just afraid of what the answer would be.

"Alright," he said, thinking. They had a silent agreement after the drones: Bruce Wayne wouldn't interfere with the projects of the Research and Development Department and neither would Batman. Not directly—not like he had when he had asked Lucius to hire Miriam. But this would be different.

"Give the chip to Alfred." He didn't know how, but Miriam would work with him. She might be angry, and she was certainly upset, but she would. And he didn't like knowing that he wouldn't be able to do much else without her. "I'll call you."

_"Now, I didn't mean—"_

Batman hung up, his jaw clenched tight as his frustrations mounted. He didn't have time for delays, not with the rumours coming out of Crime Alley. It pained him, but Batman couldn't do this alone and he couldn't keep avoiding the inevitable.

He finally needed to face Miriam.

* * *

The streets of Gotham weren't so different from when Jason Todd was a teenager. At least, the East End and poorer boroughs weren't. Some of the shops he'd known as a kid—the ones he had stolen from and those where he had spent what little money he had—were still around, a new level of grime on the brick and stucco with signs washed-out by acid rain. Even if the faces had changed, the people occupying the streets hadn't. Apathy, wariness, self-defensive hostility, keen eyes looking for easy scores, curled fists ready to start a fight, the incoherent ramblings of those occupying the same, never-empty corners, people with their heads down as they marched on and hoped no one looked at them—those were all things that were achingly familiar.

And so was their fear. That hadn't changed at all.

Even though his motorcycle was going at breakneck speeds, zooming past the other cars and weaving through traffic with reckless disregard for the risk of flipping and breaking his neck, Jason could still see everyone he passed. He never looked away, not even when it hurt. Much was still the same, but too much had changed while he was gone, and he wouldn't make the mistake of leaving Gotham again. He'd be buried there—likely sooner than he might have envisioned as a boy, but it wouldn't be until his work was finished.

This area of Gotham in particular—the Bowery—was more familiar than he wanted it to be. The entire East End was a never-ending nightmare of memory, one Jason dreamed of escaping for almost his entire life only to come back and defend it. The rows of dingy houses grew more decrepit by the day, the spring rain washing away any colour until they were just dirty white shutters against a wall of gray. One door, red and bright, stuck out against a hedge of green. It wasn't until he parked behind the beat-up, silver hatchback that Jason smiled.

Pulling his motorcycle under the tilted awning that barely covered the car, Jason took off his helmet and made his way to the door. He knocked in a familiar pattern—another callback to when he was a kid. It was childish, but he always did it when he'd come to visit. He saw the curtains shift, could sense her moving on the other side of the door, staring at him through the peephole. She was being cautious, and Jason couldn't blame her. He centred himself in front of the door, smiling bigger like he could actually see her face. It was another fifteen seconds before she undid the many locks, her eyes going over his shoulder to check down the street before landing on him. Jason's smile was harder to keep in place as he watched her.

"What're you doing here, Jason?" she asked, her brown eyes darting around, black hair pulled back tight in a bun. She had either just come home from work or was getting ready to leave. He knew she didn't leave for much of anything anymore. Not since the Siege.

Jason tried to sound light, cheery, even when he was bone-tired. "What, I need an excuse to see my sister?"

Isadora didn't return his smile, sighing instead and pushing back strands of stray hair behind her ears. He knew she wanted to correct him.

_"Only half," _she'd said in the past. They might've barely shared a mother, but they didn't share much else. Child Protective Services made sure of that.

_Yeah, and I made it worse._

"You could've called," she said, sounding tired.

_Still pleased as punch to have you around, seems._

"I wanted to surprise Val and the little guy," he said, using his height to look over his sister's head for his niece and nephew. His opportunities to visit them were rare with the line of work he'd taken on, but he still watched them from afar—making sure they were safe. Sometimes watching wasn't enough, and he wanted to be near what family he had left despite himself.

Isadora side-stepped, opening the door wide enough to slip through and nearly close behind her. "Look, now's not a good time—"

_"Tío!"_

Jason's face brightened in a way he hadn't felt it do in weeks. Valeria squeezed past her mother and wrapped her thin arms around his waist, jumping up and down fast enough to make her hair dance around her head.

"Hey there, little lady," he said, putting a hand on her head in a vain attempt to control the bursting energy. She'd grown since the last time he'd been over eight weeks ago. He dropped down to be at her eye level, smile turning into a smirk. "What've you been doing to grow so much? Find some magic beans or somethin'?"

"Beans?" Valeria asked, face scrunching up and her nose wriggling.

Jason chuckled through his nose, ruffling her hair until it was a staticky mess around her head. He laughed in earnest at her flustered attempts to fix it. "Don't tell me you don't know the story?"

"_Psh_—no! Probably some _old _people story for _old _people." All Valeria was missing was the stuck out tongue to complete the mock-scowl that barely hid a smile and the hands on her hips.

_"Old _people? Now, that's just _rude, _Val—you haven't even heard it yet! This one's a _classic_—"

"Jason."

He shut his mouth quickly, taking his eyes away from Valeria's excited face to Isadora's scowling one. Jason knew that look—it was one of the few things she inherited from their mother; the ability to command with just one word. Everything else in look and manner Isadora had Jason assumed she got from her father, though he hadn't met him. Her dark hair and eyes were from him, the brown of her skin, the other language Jason had learned to speak years later. He just knew she didn't get anything else from their mother; she wouldn't be as good of a person otherwise.

"Hey, go find your brother. I've got something for you two," he said, turning back to Valeria and smoothing down the remnants of her hair. Valeria barely gave him time to even do that, beaming and running back inside screaming for Eli.

"They don't need anything else," Isadora said, but the edge was almost gone, her boney shoulders starting to relax and come down from their position next to her ears. She'd lost weight in the last year and a half. Whether it was from stress or not being able to afford some decent food didn't matter—it still bothered him, made him want to help. But Isadora would only accept so much.

"I know, just…" he trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. "Let me spoil them a little."

He knew by the change in her face that he'd said the wrong thing—triggered another argument that had defined most of their interactions from the day he turned seventeen.

"You could've if you hadn't left."

"Izzie—"

"You wasted _years_, so don't come around here tellin' me you suddenly wanna make up for lost time."

_"Izzie—"_

"You weren't there when Miguel—"

Isadora bit her tongue, her voice getting thick. Jason knew what she meant. He was gone when it happened—gunning down other men a continent away in the name of something he didn't believe in anymore; a sick twist of irony for what happened, Jason believing that he had finally escaped when he had just traded one hell for another.

"When Miguel died. They _needed _you. They need you when this city went to complete _shit._ When I—" Isadora's mouth shut quickly, bottom lip quivering once before she steeled herself and glared. "Where were you then?"

Jason didn't have an easy response for that, either. She was right, and excuses wouldn't make up for it. Instead of guilt, anger—burning hot _rage_ grew in his chest. But not at his sister, his family—but at himself.

_And those pieces of shit playing fucking dress-up._

"Isadora, you know I wanted to be," he said after a long minute, bringing his voice under control, shaking out his sore fists. Jason stared at her, willing for his face to look different than he knew it did at that moment. He wanted to show her he was sincere, but he knew—he knew his face was hard, showing the dammed up waves of wrath that made him vibrate.

"That isn't good enough—"

_"Tío!" _a small voice cried out. The sound of it snapped Jason out of the dark trail of thoughts that always waited on the periphery, always looking for the chance to swallow him. He smiled at the sight of Eli's head of black curls, the big brown eyes staring up at him.

"What'd you bring, _tío?" _Valeria asked, bringing up the rear and grabbing his arm so she could hang on and swing her legs. They were both clamouring to use him as their personal jungle gym, voices getting higher until they eclipsed the sound of the rain hitting the pavement.

"OK—OK! You'll only get it if your mom says you've been good," Jason said, relenting. Eli's legs were wrapped around his calf, Valeria still clinging to his arm. He looked to Isadora and saw her face soften, the worry-lines easing away as she leaned against the doorway. "What do you say? They been good?"

Valeria and Eli whipped their heads around, voices climbing over one another to tell her how they had been behaving and doing their school work. When Isadora smiled, Jason felt his own return. "Yeah," she said, running her fingers through her children's hair. "_Mis amados han sido buenos."_

It wasn't until Jason's phone vibrated in his pocket and he looked at the caller ID that he realized he needed to leave. His heart sank, but it still felt lighter than it had in years. Pulling out the wrapped package from the inside pocket of his jacket, he handed it to Valeria and watched them tear into it.

"A book?" she asked, holding it gingerly and looking at the art on the front flap.

"Yeah, one of my favourites. You'll have to let me know when you two finish it."

She held Jason's copy of Roald Dahl's _The Witches. _He'd stolen it from his school library, but he remembered reading it over and over again—finding his favourite passages and memorizing them when there wasn't much else he wanted to remember. He hoped Valeria and Eli would never need to use it for that, but that they could find something else in it that he had.

"Behave for your mom now. Don't wanna hear that you little gremlins have been kicking up trouble," he said, but Valeria and Eli were already gone, absorbed in reading the back and trying to figure out what it was about. Jason often brought books as presents for them; it was the one thing that made sure he gave them something good. He stared at the two of them a moment longer before raising his hand in a wave. "See you, Izzy."

The anger that was on her face before evaporated. As she ushered her children inside, he could've sworn that she was happy to have seen him after all. "Bye, Jay."

* * *

"Hello, apartment," Jason said to the empty flat. He had no one to greet him, so he'd long since made a one-man inside joke about greeting the only other occupants: his furniture.

_Now it's just kind of sad, ain't it?_

"Hello, couch," he said as he passed the beat-up leather sofa. His place was small, but it was enough to serve his purposes. Eating crap food that was quick, crashing after a long night to sleep for a couple hours before going back out, and storing his equipment in the locked cabinet hidden behind a false panel in the bedroom closet—his existence was a simple one, and he preferred it that way.

Walking into his bedroom, he dropped his bag next to his dresser, making sure it lined up neatly and didn't stick out to trip him later. Rolling his shoulders, he sighed, "Hello, bed."

Jason didn't get a response, of course, but that was alright. He still wasn't used to the quiet, being alone with his own thoughts that were always ringing in his head too loud. Sleep should come easy that night. He hoped, anyway.

_Wishful thinking. Never does._

"Hello, pillow," he said, laying gingerly on the bed and suppressing a wince as his bruised back muscles started to unwind. Letting out a pent-up breath, Jason tried to close his eyes to sleep. He'd need to be up again in five hours and he needed to be sharp.

But his mind was nothing if not a complete asshole.

Jason couldn't sleep, couldn't stop thinking. Growling, he sat up and searched for his phone in the dark. Jason didn't know why he kept watching the video—why seeing it play out on a loop was something he needed to keep embedding in his mind.

He just added this to the list of things he didn't totally understand but did anyway, even if it made him angry enough to completely forget the need to sleep.

The video was of Miriam Kane, on some metal floor looking like an empty doll with clothes that were too big and buttoned up wrong, no shoes and bloody feet, leaning over a steaming pot of oil. Occasionally her mouth trembled, but that was only one sign of her duress. Her empty eyes, shaking hands, and the bruises and cuts were more than enough to show that only someone not in their right mind would be there willingly. She, more than anyone else, would understand what he was after—what Gotham needed to overcome that brand of evil. He'd seen it himself—a familiar pain that would only go away with _vengeance_. Jason understood that.

_I really should stop watching this._

But he wouldn't. Perhaps he needed to keep reminding himself of his mission, why it was so important, be slapped with the reality of the heinous acts forever embedded in the memories of his family and nearly ten million people.

_"As a bonus for today, and a celebration for over _twenty thousand_ votes in yesterday's poll, I'm giving you something _special_, kids. Once in a lifetime chance to see the scum of the earth get what they _deserve_."_

When he watched it, it was often without sound anymore, but it didn't matter; he'd long ago memorized the words—the sound of that _psychotic freak's _voice. Hate was alive and well in Jason, twisting in his stomach and making his muscles spasm.

_"I'm releasing the names and last known locations of fifteen of Gotham's _Most Wanted. _You're not getting any help with those ones, the fun's all on _you_, on one _itty bitty _condition."_

That was it. The death order that had nearly killed his sister and her children; a sentence handed down by a madman that people were too stupid and unwilling to question. That had nearly taken away everything Jason had left. It came from the man Jason swore he'd gut with his bare hands, would bathe in his blood as he sacrificed his soul to make sure it never happened again. And he'd do the same to the _Clown Prince's _ultimate enabler—the one who let it all happen. The Great Disappointment—the _Dark Pretender._

Jason Peter Todd was going to kill the Joker, and then he'd be coming for Batman next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoy the chapter! It looks like school will eat up a substantial amount of my time, so I'll have to keep the biweekly posting schedule. Thanks to everyone new checking this out and my wonderful and loyal readers for sticking around! ❤
> 
> Also, as some of you may recognize, the Valeria and Eli mentioned here are the same ones from "Crowd Control" in the 34th chapter of _Everything Burns_. The Joker's actions are going to come back to bite him in more ways than one, but how it turns out will be a mystery! Jason doesn't have much of a biological family in the comics, but I'm altering that to help make him fit into the Nolan-verse and the larger AU I'm mish-mashing. He doesn't have the Bat-Family to anchor him as he (occasionally) does in the comics, so I've had to play around with things since Nolan's Batman never takes in orphaned wards. 
> 
> A big thank you again now and always to [Khaosprinz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khaosprinz/pseuds/Khaosprinz) for her help proofreading this!


	4. Stay a Little Longer

_I’m hurting. All I am is pain and blood. I can’t focus. There’re faces in front of me—scars and bruises and cruel smiles. Hands are on my skin, creeping up to my throat._

_ It’s Zsasz’ hand in my bra, the other between my legs. _

_It’s _him_ choking the life from me. _

_ It’s the blade of a knife cutting me apart. _

_ It’s the thread feeding through a needle before stitching me back together. _

_ It’s Bruce and Alfred crying over my body as I watch from a distance. _

_ Then it changes. I’m falling, but the pain doesn’t leave. It’s ripping through me, mixing with something else that’s supposed to feel good. Hands on mine, hot and warming my skin—spread to my lips and burn them. Soft words in my ear, telling me things I always wanted, take away everything I have left. _

_ “Do you think _ I’ll _ ever leave you?” _

_ The feelings morph. It’s a knife inside me, peeling back my skin and laying me bare. Bruce and Alfred are here, watching it happen. _

_ No, no, no— _

_ “Wake up.” _

_ My stomach drops—I’m observing from above; I scream but make no sound. I’m watching them die; their blood runs through my fingers. I’m holding a knife. _He’s _holding a gun to my head. _

_ I can’t—I can’t— _

_ But it’s not a gun, it was just his hands mimicking one. Laughing—unending and loud and grating and _mad_ shakes__ me. It’s coming from him until it isn’t. _

_ It’s me. I’m the one laughing. And I can’t stop. _

A loud blaring—shrill and piercing—doesn’t belong. Something clicks and I try to move my arms, but I can’t get my body to work. 

_ Alfred and Bruce rise and stare, accusing, blood pouring from the smiles carved across their throats. Parker stands behind them, head cocked to the side, face splitting and black hair turning green. _

_ “Gotta catch a Mir-_cat.” 

_ Someone has to help me. I need someone to help me— _

I’m paralyzed. My chest won’t move the way I need it to; it hurts to breathe—there’s a knife in my side. It hurts; everything hurts. I can’t breathe, but I need to scream. 

_ “Good morning, Gotham! This is your number one source of news, tunes, and—” _

_ I need to get away, I need to get somewhere safe— _

Light floods in and blinds me. I sit up only for the world to spin out of control. There’s someone here with me, someone’s talking. 

_ Need to be safe, need to be safe— _

I’m trying to get my legs to work but fall on the floor instead, feet tangled in the strewn sheets. The world doesn’t break through—stays hazy and unreal. 

_ Get up, Miri—get up— _

_ “We’re live at 9 with your update on this rainy hour here at WXYZ Radio. You can expect consistent showers with a high risk of thunderstorms sticking around until at least tomorrow afternoon."_

The words dawn on me too late. I’m on my knees, struggling to stand up—grabbing the nearby wardrobe and nearly making it fall on top of me. Air fills my chest slowly as my vision clears, taking in the streaks of light coming through the partially closed blinds, the heavy taps of rain hitting the window, the cans of beer on the floor by the bed, and the glaring red radio clock boring into my retinas and reminding me that everything was just a dream. It wasn’t happening, I was fine. 

_ But those things _did _happen. _

Well, almost all of them. 

_ “That’s right, Phil, so wear those rubber boots and grab your umbrella!” _

Legs shaking as I get up, unsteady and unsure, I make my way to the clock sitting on a ledge across the living room. 

_ “Now we’re back with another forty-five minutes of commercial-free tunes—” _

Fumbling with the damn thing, I finally turn it off and almost wish I didn’t. The silence is too much, worse than the sounds that aggravated the alcohol-induced headache. I don’t remember crawling into bed, throwing on a different shirt and pulling the blankets over my head last night. Most of the food I got two days ago is still on the counter, some half-eaten and the rest surrounded by take-out boxes. My hair might be shorter now, but it’s a tangled wreck matted to one side of my head and sticking up on end on the other. 

_ Good thing you’re not a complete mess or anything. _

Like my joints need oiling, they’re stiff and seem to creak as I move, protesting with an ache for me to be comatose for a few more hours. Why the sudden urge to clean up is so compelling now doesn’t make sense, but I don’t resist it, clearing the counters and throwing away the stale food. It’s not much better—it doesn’t hide the fact that I still need to get some proper food and the basics to make this place livable. 

_ I’m too hungover to deal with this. _

But instead of getting up to do any of those things, I flop back down on the bed and throw my arms over my eyes, trying to banish the thoughts that never want to go away. Regret overshadows the list of things I _ should _be doing. On top of the growing list of stuff I need, the most pressing—and frustrating—desire is for more booze. 

_ But that’s not making the dreams—or thoughts—go away either. _

Too much to drink in too short a time period—a mistake I still haven’t learned from. Drowning the memories in alcohol was something I wouldn’t have thought about doing two years ago, but it’s an adequate replacement for the drugs I won’t take but desperately want to. The tool’s changed, but the end result is still the same—I know that but convince myself I don’t. And yet I’m afraid of drinking more than I have been. What used to terrify me for the way it took away my control is one of the few things that helps keep the memories away. It works, most of the time, because I realized I never had any control at all. 

I know it’s not healthy. Mom’s problems with alcohol are something I haven’t forgotten. It had been the cause of almost every break-up she’d had—the fact that she wouldn’t stop, that she needed it to cope with her own problems. I hadn’t judged her for it, not really—I’d always seen her with a glass of something in her hand. It wasn’t until high school that I realized not everyone’s parents did that. 

_ Turns out you wouldn’t be much better anyway. _

Pill-popper. Burgeoning alcoholic. And— 

_ “Are you saying, ah, you _ played _ the whore? That you let yourself be _ used _ like a _ cheap _ piece of meat? Is _ that _ what you're telling me, Miri?” _

“Shut up,” I say, digging the heels of my hands into my eyes. There’s a ringing in my ears, resonating at a frequency that _hurts. _I sound nuts, talking to myself, and I’m glad no one’s here to see me unravel.

_ Again. _

“Just… shut up.”

I think I fall back asleep, but it doesn’t really feel like it. It’s more… like I’m floating. Things don’t feel so bad, I can drift in between—stay away from what my mind can’t escape and the reality that won’t go away. 

_ Forget, and go back to sleep. _

As if to add to the list of ways this day is one worth ignoring, the tell-tale vibration of my phone rattling against the floor makes me groan. There are very few people who would be calling me, and I don’t want to talk to any of them. 

_ Let it go to voicemail. _

It rings and rings, seemingly without end until it dies. Just as my eyes close again it goes off—almost more insistent than before. I keep ignoring it, willing it to shut up like the thoughts in my head. After a while it does, but I know I won’t be able to ignore it for long. 

_ You are _definitely_ too__ hungover for this. Stupid—stupid, stupid. _

Reaching around blindly, I manage to grab it. My fingers rub against the cracks on the screen and I sigh, knowing I’ll have to get it fixed—another thing on the list. My phone’s glaring at me, the stupid messages searing into my sore and tired eyes like a brand. Despite the hour, Naomi’s called me five times. She seems to have changed her mind about having those three days to myself. That, or she’s forgotten she gave them to me. 

_ Or maybe she’s just being a bitch. _

That seems like the best fit for her track record. 

**Meet with David. He’s your Gotham HS contact—all intel goes through him. Call him by 2200. **

A number and email are listed along with an attached photo of what he looks like. His cheeks are round and pock-marked, a head of unruly hair that curls around his ears. He wouldn’t look much older than sixteen if it wasn’t for the poorly-grown mustache and crow’s feet around his eyes. He’s the man who’s going to handle my case, the one I report my findings to and receive instructions from my forensic investigation unit with Homeland Security. What he’s _really_ supposed to do is make sure I don’t fuck up or step out of line. 

_ She still thinks I need a goddamn babysitter. _

Throwing my phone on the bed, making it bounce and land on the floor—and probably worsen the fracture—I rub my eyes and groan at the throbbing that hammers against the sides of my skull. 

_ Just get it over with. _

Dragging myself up to the bathroom and showering away the smell of booze and sleep, everything feels sluggish—too slow for my mind to focus and distant enough for me not to care. My body’s a blob of uniform colour, nothing sticks out that’ll cause the spiral that had me down an entire bottle of wine and three cans of disgusting beer. 

_ Don’t think about alcohol, Jesus. _

Despite the nausea, sleep still doesn’t feel far away; but I resist the urge to fall back on the mattress for another six to eight hours I don’t need. The clothes I grab don’t matter, putting them on is just a repetitive motion that comes with habit. I know everything I grab will cover what I want to; that I can pretend for a while longer the things I want to hide don’t exist. It’s like I _am_ asleep, going around in circles in the apartment and searching for something I can’t totally grasp—like my brain went dark. The colours blur until I’m not sure if I’m moving or standing still— 

A loud chime on my phone snaps me awake long enough to recognize that it’s likely Naomi again, and I groan when I realize the damn thing fell under the bed when I threw it. My limbs are heavy and tired, but I drop down to the floor, pushing on when my head pounds in protest. Somehow lying on my stomach and reaching for it feels like the worst decision I’ve made in a while, my stomach giving a painful twist that makes me think I might start dry heaving. When I finally grab it and read the incoming message, I surprise myself with an unexpected growl. 

**I’m sending your intake forms to Arkham. Book yourself an appointment. Non-negotiable. **

I throw my phone clear across the floor until it hits one of the legs of the couch, pressing my forehead against the dirt and dust-coated hardwood and muffling a yell of frustration. 

_ She still wants you in therapy. Still thinks you’re nuts and need a shrink. _

The initial anger about the demand—I’m not stupid enough to think it’s a request, meeting with Dr. Mano certainly wasn’t—fades as I’m slapped with a painful realization that does make me heave. 

_ Arkham. Naomi wants me to see someone at _ Arkham?! _She_ knows he's_ there. Why would she— _

Naomi doesn’t need a reason. She wants me to get my work done, and she wants it with as few liabilities as possible. I did some reading before I came back to Gotham. Most of the mental health services were streamlined to be housed in one area—the sprawling new Arkham facilities. Arianna Hill wanted them all to be in one place, a super-facility to provide _ ‘adequate care for those who need it.’ _Now there’s only the pricey private practices and social workers in the city itself. None of which will cut it for Naomi. 

_ No. She can’t make me go. She _won’t. 

She’ll be expecting confirmation that I’ve read her messages. I know what she’s like when I don’t respond. Usually, it starts with one calm call, and then it’s someone nearly busting down my door to make sure I haven’t _ ‘decided to do something stupid,’ _ as she’s said before. I’ve already ignored her calls, but she isn’t here to drag me anywhere. Personal space isn’t something you get when working for _ Colonel Naomi Matsumoto. _

_ Well, fuck her. _

Getting to my feet so quick I smack my head and give myself a headrush, I grab my battered phone and bag from the floor and march out of the apartment, not even sure where I want to go or what I’m doing beyond going somewhere—_anywhere—_else. Finding a gym or somewhere that has things I can punch seems like a good idea—I can pretend it’s her head. 

I slam the door, and my building anger makes my hands shake. The key won’t go in the lock, and I’m close to giving up or trying to tear it off the hinges—I’m still undecided—when someone clears their throat behind me. 

“Do you have a thing against doors or something?” 

I stiffen but don’t jump like I did the other day; I recognize the voice. “Just _this_ door,” I say, attacking the lock again and not turning around. 

“It’d probably work better if you, I don’t know, learned how to work a lock.”

My fingers freeze, and I turn to find Zareen sitting on the stairs, elbows propped up on her knees and looking bored. 

_ This brat. _

The first words that bubble up are less than kind, and I remind myself that I’m dealing with a kid. A rude one, but still a kid. 

“Yeah, I’ll get right on that,” I grumble, trying—and likely failing—to tame my glower. “Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” It’s Tuesday—at least, I think it’s Tuesday. And it’s April; too early for school not to be in session. Giving her a quick once over, she doesn’t seem sick either. “You’re too young to be skipping, kid.”

Zareen opens her mouth to speak but shuts it quickly, looking ahead and pretending she didn’t hear me. I don’t know why, but I walk over to her, leaning on the bannister and looking at her through the wooden spokes. She avoids meeting my eye.

“It’s not lunchtime yet, so why are you here?” 

_ And in the hallway, for that matter. _

Giving me a sideways glare, her bottom lip sticks out a fraction. “I’m _ten_. I can decide when to stay home,” she says, sitting up a little straighter, as if to make herself look older than she is. 

“Ten?” I ask. I don’t believe her—something in her face gives it away, maybe the little flush of pink in her cheeks, or the way she won’t meet my eyes. “That’s still pretty young. Are your parents not around?” 

Zareen doesn’t answer, picking at a stray thread on her blue shirt. All the thoughts about storming off to do… whatever my mind was fixing on disappears. This kid—this _child—_is a stranger, a smart-mouthed brat. But I remember when I was like that, when I didn’t want to go to school or be around anyone, when I hid but was so desperate for company. It’s familiar in a way I wish it wasn’t, but I don’t know how to deal with it now any better than I did then. Sighing, I drop my bag off my shoulder and round the newel post, taking a seat on the stair below Zareen, letting the quiet sit between us. 

“Nine and a half.” 

It was so muffled I barely heard it. Zareen’s covering her mouth with her sleeves, looking away and knee bouncing. “What’s that?” I ask.

“I’m… nine and a half,” she says, giving me a peeking glance before looking away again. 

I thought she would’ve been younger, but she doesn’t look like she’s lying this time. Pressing her about it seems like the wrong way to handle this. Hell, I don’t know how to handle whatever _this _is at all. 

“I never liked school either,” I say after a while, staring at the fading carpet that still smells. Zareen’s knee stops bouncing. “You can still learn even if you’re not there. Just don’t waste your time on TV. Read a book. Take something apart and put it back together. Play outside—_something _other than letting your brain stay asleep.” 

That’s something Mom told me, back when I’d fake being sick to miss a week of school at a time. Or when I was suspended. It’s what opened up the door to learn about computers, how I was _good _with them—better at it than I was just about everything else. That I could do more with it than staring at a whiteboard and zoning out for eight hours, learn how to read something that always made sense, always had a solution if you were smart enough to figure it out—there were formulae, processes and weaknesses that could be used to your advantage. But it also took out the element of the human, the variable that always led to disappointment and pain. 

“Can’t think there. It’s too loud. I always wanna work on something else but can’t,” she says, sliding down to sit next to me, scrunching up her nose in thought. I move over to give her room, not minding at all that we’re sitting close to one another. “Ms. Morgan says I have DAD. Or something.” 

“You mean ADD?” 

“Yeah, that thing,” she says, face brightening and the hands falling away. 

For some reason it makes me smile, her enthusiasm. And, for once, it feels natural. “You could just have a lot of energy you’re not using. I was like that, too.” 

_ Why are you playing BFFs with a nine-year-old? _

I don’t have an answer for that, but I don’t get up to leave. “Why do you talk to me so much? You like this with every stranger?” I ask with a snort, partially as a joke to break the sudden wave of awkwardness I’m feeling and because I just want to know. There’s another thing I can’t fathom: why _ I’m _the one perpetuating the conversation. 

She doesn’t even seem to think about it before the words spill out, “I don’t know.” Her knees bounce again, lips curling up in a goofy grin.

“That was convincing.” My own smile grows, stretching my cheeks—it’s unfamiliar, like I’d lost the muscle memory of what it felt like. 

“I _ don’t,” _she says, trying to sound more serious but giggling instead. I laugh with her, willing to let it drop when she goes quiet and tugs at the edge of her sleeve with her teeth. “You seemed… nice, I guess. People here are mean.” 

The laughter dies in my chest. What has this kid seen that watching me assault a door was an indicator of something better than what she’d witnessed before? What’s going on that she wants to talk with someone she doesn’t know and spend her time sitting alone in a dark stairwell—that no one seems to care where she is? Guilt makes my chest constrict, my mind thinking over every rude thought I had, each impulse to be biting. 

_ What do I say to that? _

I’m not good with kids—or people in general. The last year and a half didn’t help that much. But… I find myself wanting to try. 

_ Just don’t put your foot in your mouth. _

“You’re nice, too, Zareen,” I say, making a point to look at her face and smile again even though the discomfort I feel is deep. I only had Mom and Bruce when I was her age, and, even then, that never felt like entirely enough. “If you ever need something, or just want a place to read—”

_ What the hell are you offering? You’re an idiot—this is a kid you don’t know— _

“You can just… knock. I’m usually working on my laptop,” or drinking—but I’ll have to stop that if there’s a chance she’ll be over, “It’s better than hanging out here, yeah?” 

Zareen’s face brightens up to the point I think she’s going to pounce on me, but she seems to draw inward instead, wrapping her arms tight around herself and twisting and bending. “In your place?” she asks, eyes big and seeming to disbelieve, even though she’s hanging on the offer, already hoping it’s true. 

Guilt hits me again—I might’ve just made an offer I shouldn’t have, something I can’t live up to. Who knows how I’ll feel tomorrow, what stupid thing will come out of my mouth, how I’ll ruin her day and make it worse. 

_ "It's almost like… you _ruin_ people__. You're _trouble_—just_ like _me. Surely you must have realized how much, ah—how much _ damage _ you do just from being _ around _ people." _

My eyes close and I push away the memory—his voice, the smells, how cold I was, the fear and terror, the feelings of him— 

_ Stop it—stop. Don’t think about it. _

I breathe deep, inhaling slowly and releasing the breath, letting it take the memories with it. Forcing myself to keep looking at Zareen, I wonder what it would’ve been like if I had someone offering that, a hand stretched out to give a small reprieve. 

_ You did. It was Parker. _

“Yeah. I don’t want you to get in trouble or anything, but you can come over whenever you need to, alright?” I don’t know exactly what the magnitude of that offer will look like—if I’ll regret it, prove yet again that I am nothing but pure poison. It shouldn’t, but what I’ve just offered feels dangerous, like I’m opening up someone else undeserving to future pain. 

_ Then don’t let it happen. Even if it’s just her, don’t let her down. Be better. _

I’m grateful that she doesn’t say anything for a while, her smile going small and her round cheeks getting pinker. She goes back to picking at the loose thread when she speaks, “OK, Miriam.” She pulls on the thread hard enough for it to snap, making a small hole in the seam of her sleeve. “Thanks.”

My smile is back—more real than anything I’ve felt since my life fell apart. Even after she hops up and goes back to her apartment door, still smiling and waving goodbye, the feeling doesn’t leave. It feels like I did something _right_, that maybe it’ll lead to something good instead of breaking. I never thought I was stupid enough to think a future deed would make up for the past, but I find myself falling into that line of reasoning now. And I want it to be true, for this to be an exception. 

_ Maybe… maybe not everything has to be bad. _

I still don’t know what the hell I’m going to do for the rest of the day—I just know it won’t involve talking to Naomi—but I find my mind wandering to the man from the other night—Jason. How he had every opportunity to prove my paranoia right and didn’t, how he seemed to mean the things he said, too. 

_ Maybe things can be different. _

This could be some high of pure stupidity my brain’s running on, brought on by a friendly interaction I was starved of for so long, but something close to… almost hope for things to be better makes me feel light, and not even the scar on my chest can take it away completely. 

_ He’s in Arkham. He hasn’t gotten out in all this time, and he won’t. Zsasz is dead. There’s no one left to hurt you but _you. 

Before I can change my mind or second-guess the decision like I do everything else, I pull out my cell phone and start typing. 

**What was it you were saying about good waffles? **

* * *

_Y_ _ou are so fucking stupid sometimes, Miri. _

The idiocy high is wearing off, leaving me anxious and wringing my hands. If I was a better person, I would’ve called Alfred back. He’s worried—I know from his emails that I haven’t answered—but that seems like more than I can handle. Reminders of the _before,_ of the reality I want to shirk—what happened, who I am now, what we lost—is something I don’t feel ready to confront. 

_ The rate you’re going, you never will. And what will that look like? You can’t run away forever. _

“You want some coffee, honey?” the waitress, a petite Latina woman with her brown hair tied back in a tight bun, asks me. 

I’ve been sitting in Sal’s Diner for fifteen minutes—way ahead of when I said I’d meet Jason. I wanted to get there before I could chicken out, but sitting here turns out to have been a worse mistake. My hands are intent on strangling the other, twisting and searching for the rings that I have tucked away deep in the mess of my bags, sheltered in a small cedar box that I only open when I’m feeling particularly masochistic.

“Do you have hot chocolate?” I ask, trying to still my hands and failing. 

“Sure thing.” She tucks the notepad away in her apron, giving me a smile and glancing at the empty seat opposite mine in the booth I’m occupying. I feel the need to explain, that I _ am _expecting someone and I’m not doing the lonely lunch for one. 

_ Maybe she thinks you got stood up. _

A new sort of paranoia I’m not used to hits me. I look down at my clothes, regretting that I didn’t choose something a little better and yet feeling glad that the shirt is large enough to hide in. Rather than the fear of pain or ill-intentions, I’m afraid that I was stupid enough to read into something that wasn’t real and finding another reason to never interact with anyone unless absolutely necessary. 

_ Now you just sound neurotic. _

“Why am I here again?” I mutter to myself, picking up the standard, slightly sticky container of salt and twist it around, staring at the small indentations and wondering how many meals it’s been responsible for seasoning. It’s still gray and gloomy outside, nothing unusual for Gotham at this time of year, and the diner is almost empty. The green and pink stripes look muted instead of vibrant, the 50’s aesthetic not matching the decrepit facade outside. “You can still leave.” 

It could still happen. He isn’t here yet—then _he _can feel like the stood-up one. No interaction to deepen any sort of connection, no foul. The urge to withdraw is powerful enough that I pull out my wallet, counting how much change I have to pay the bill. 

_ What were you thinking? You’ve been just fine not doing shit like this, so why start now? Just go back to the apartment and— _

But I’m too late. A tall man walks through the front door, holding a black helmet and wearing a leather jacket dripping with rain. Pushing back his hood, the small streak of white confirms the obvious. Jason looks around, ruffling his hair and smiling when he sees me. The urge to flee only intensifies. 

_ Stupid—you’re so, so stupid. It’s official. _

Before I can make a last-minute exit at some back door, Jason’s at the table and shrugging off his jacket, eyes never leaving me. My cheeks get hot and I’m grateful for the sudden appearance of the waitress setting down my drink. I bring it close to the edge of the table, focusing on how the heat burns my hands and noticing the small marshmallows floating. 

_ What are you, twelve? Jesus—idiot. You’re a genuine, honest to God _idiot. 

“Afternoon, sunshine,” he says, sitting down opposite me. He’s still grinning, lounging back comfortably like the concept of nerves is foreign to him. 

“H-Hi.” I cringe at the sound of my voice, resisting the need to smack my forehead with my palm and wincing instead and pulling my sleeves down. 

_ So fucking stupid. _

“Colour me surprised, I thought I wasn’t gonna hear from you again.”

I can’t help it—staring at him. The wide, easy grin and the open body language that doesn’t seem to hide anything, the way he just looks at my face without trying to see past what my clothes are hiding. He has the physical trappings of someone I should be terrified of, the power that’s obviously greater than what I can dish out and therefore dangerous, but I’m not. Perhaps this is an exercise in figuring him out as much as alleviating the hollow cavern that’s grown in my chest. 

“Guess you thought wrong,” I say, taking a sip of my drink even though it burns my tongue. 

His eyes go to my fingers, and I try to hide them in the fabric of my sleeve. The scars aren’t as bright as they were, but they’re still there. Dark pink lines and circles from where the frostbite seared my skin, where the burns and cuts left marks deep enough that no amount of vitamin E oil can fade away. There aren’t many parts of me that _don’t _have scars now. 

“Guess so,” he says, eyes going over my shoulder and hand rising in a wave. He’s called the waitress back and, as if on cue, I feel my stomach clench with hunger. “Don’t lie, though—it was the waffles, wasn’t it? They have a way of embedding in your goddamn _ brain.” _

I don’t mean to, but I snort, smirking to mitigate the expression I want to make. “Yeah—it was definitely the promise of waffles.” 

The conversation between us is easy. He’s been here so often that the waitress knows him, and he's left a good enough impression that she looks between us and gives a knowing grin. It makes my face so hot that I’m surprised I haven’t started sweating yet, and although the urge to run very, very far away is still present, it eases back the more he speaks. 

He doesn’t pry right away, going over the large assortment of options as to how I can experience the ultimate _waffle feast _of all my wildest dreams. I didn’t mean to, but he’s making me laugh, talking about which fruit combinations are the best like it’s a science. The way he talks about it makes the food appealing in a way I haven’t felt about much of anything in a long time, and it isn’t until we’ve placed our orders—his ridiculously larger than mine—that he props his elbows on the table and gives a more discerning look. 

“You been feeling alright, Adina?” he asks, trying to maintain an air of casualness. But I know what he means. 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” 

It’s automatic and much smoother than I thought I could be, but he doesn’t look convinced. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything at first—probably waiting for me to fill up the silence with words. Dr. Mano did that a lot. I learned quickly to be OK with letting the quiet stay that way, so I sip at my drink and stare at his hands. 

“Hmm.” He shifts so that he’s in my line of sight again. “Don’t mean to be rude, but you look dog-tired,” he says. 

I scoff, but I’m suddenly all too aware of the permanent bags under my eyes. Sleep is a tenuous concept, one I only grasp at for a few hours at a time. I push my hair back, a nervous habit I haven’t gotten rid of. 

“Isn’t everyone?” I counter. 

“Maybe—but most people don’t go around punching strangers when they’re tired,” he says. I go cold, starting in my face and going down my spine. Sitting back in the booth, I stare out the window, already thinking of what to say to leave. “Hey, hey—I’m not trying to make you feel bad. Just a little… worried, is all.”

“Why would you be worried about me?” I ask, eyes snapping to him as my defenses go up. 

Instead of backpedalling, Jason’s smile changes, arms dropping down to lay flat on the tabletop. “Good question. Don’t really know myself. I’d say it’s the way my ma raised me, but that wouldn’t be true.” It’s his turn to look out the window. The vibrations coming from the floor tell me he’s bouncing his knee, and my shoulders unconsciously lower. “I’ve seen enough bad shit happen to good people that I don’t particularly like to do nothing when I can help,” he finishes. 

_ There isn’t much good about me left. So what is he seeing? _

“You sound like a cop.” But not a cop from here, I don’t add—I know not enough has happened for that to change completely in Gotham. Anger finds me, that need to lash out. “I don’t need your pity.” I wince at myself—at how I asked to see him and then do nothing but act like a bitch instead, at how my ability to have interactions with others that doesn’t end in hostility seem to have evaporated. 

“Ex-military, actually.” His shoulders go back, and a muscle in his neck jumps as his jaw tightens. My mouth opens like a goddamn carp’s. “Always wanted to help. Make a difference, y’know?” He’s smiling, but it looks pained. 

“You… don’t feel like you did?” I have my own feelings about what the military does after working for Naomi, the things I had to help with. But I know not everyone is like that—that they don’t all think like she does. 

“Sometimes I think I did. But, most of the time, no. Not at all.” Genuine anger and frustration crosses his face, but it’s all self-contained, wrapped up in a form of guilt that reflects what I see in the mirror every day. “They got me young. Pumped me full of ideas of helping the _cause_—bringing a force of good to the places that needed it. Bunch of fucking _ bullshit _that turned out to be.”

Resentment, bitterness, and hints of spite lace his tone, and I understand why. It’s as familiar as Zareen’s loneliness, the struggle to stand when your legs won’t hold you. His fists curl and he’s lost in himself for a moment. More than when he was being nice, I don’t find something to be suspicious of. Instead, I see something intimate and familiar: Hate that underpins everything—every memory of pain and failure—no matter how much we might want to lie to ourselves otherwise.

“I understand.” The heat comes back in my face; I didn’t mean to speak. Jason looks at me, questioning—not totally convinced that I’m not being superficial. “My mom—she was in the military.”

That’s a lie, one I feel bad about telling. I can’t tell him what I do, what I _ have _done that makes me know what he means. How many case files have I looked at of ex-soldiers, had kept tabs on for Naomi for men discharged from Special Forces, making sure they stay as patriotic as when they had enlisted? How many did I investigate for living through the horrors that come with war, where there are no winners? 

It’s only been eighteen months, but I’ve lost count. 

“‘Was’? She a vet now, too?” he asks, curious and making a purposeful effort to relax his hands and arms. 

“No.” The word’s a bark, a hasty snap to kill the topic even though I’m the one who brought her up. My finger goes to my ring finger, searching for the band I can’t stand to wear anymore. It makes me angry, but it makes me feel something else, too. “No, she… she’s dead. Been gone for a long time.”

To his credit, Jason takes it in stride, face softening in understanding but never pity. “I’m sorry.” 

It sounds like he means it—not as a way to fill silence after an uncomfortable moment, but that he is sorry it happened at all, as if it’s something that I could’ve been shielded from but wasn’t. 

_ Parker was like that, too. _

I shake my head, keeping my eyes down to make it easier. “Don’t be. Nothing anyone can do about cancer.” Jason stays still, not making a sound to fill any uncomfortable gaps this time. It makes me feel like _ I _have to. “Brain tumour. Inoperable. It was about the size of a softball by the time it killed her.”

Jason shakes his head and rubs his chin, looking away before turning back to me. But something’s changed—his eyes become shards of bright ice, mouth a hard line. I can’t read anything at all on his face. “Mine died when I was eight.”

I don’t know why I would’ve expected him to come from a family more stable and full than mine, but I did for some reason. The words, and how… almost callous they sound, takes me aback. 

“Oh, Jason—”

He cuts me off with a wave of his hand, his smile inured rather than easy-going as it was before. And, as if there was a sense of dramatic irony waiting in the wings, the waitress comes back with our food, setting down the hot plates in practised motions.

"You two call if you need anything," she says, and Jason waves in thanks, smiling without it reaching his eyes this time. 

I'm still reeling, but Jason digs into his heaping plate of three large waffles, bacon, scrambled eggs _and_ an omelette like it's his last meal on earth. “No, it’s OK. I’ll sound like a cold son of a bitch, but she was an addict—wasn’t much she did worth talking about after I turned four. Having her dead or alive didn’t make a difference.”

Jason’s right, he does sound cold, but I don’t blame him. Even though his face doesn’t give much away, and he's shovelling in food like we're talking about the weather, there’s an entire history between the lines of what he’s said: Something ugly and deep, damaging and effacing. For how he is now—seemingly stable and without any visible and apparent vices, how he managed to survive in one piece is a testament to a sort of resilience I envy. 

_ But there’s something else, too. _

Grief—I know that well enough to see it in front of me. 

For once, I don’t look away from him after more than a few seconds, taking in the lines and planes of his face in the bright lights of the diner as I start to pick at my smaller plates of waffles heaped with fruit, whipped cream, and powdered sugar. Any lingering sense of distrust is fading despite my efforts to hold onto them. He’s seen the same things I have—probably worse, and he understands them, feels what I have. 

“I don’t think you believe that,” I say after a while. 

He surprises me by smiling for real, short and fleeting before he’s the one who can’t meet my eyes. “Maybe not,” he admits, chuckling through his nose and taking several more bites. He wipes his hand down his face, taking away the last hints of what had come over him before. “But, you didn’t ask me here to talk about depressing shit. We came here to eat some _ good _fuckin’ food, didn’t we?”

As if to prove his point, he shoves an entire half of one of the waffles in his mouth. My initial snort quickly turns into a laugh and Jason joins in, almost choking, weight lifting on us both. He was right, the food here _is _good, and I find myself eating more than I have in a long time and enjoying it. He keeps the conversation light, asking me about my favourite movies as a kid and seeing if any matched up with his, talking about music and fake-mocking each other’s tastes in books with him quickly showing that he’s much better read than I am. 

The time flies by in a way I haven’t experienced since I was fifteen. When we finish our food, we keep talking until my body loosens in a way I don’t remember feeling. It isn’t until I happen to glance outside by chance and see that it’s dark that I remember myself—remember that I’m not supposed to do these things: Make friends, let myself forget, feel… something close to what normal must be like. The ease I felt fades, and an annoying sense of demurity that _pisses _me off comes over me when I realize I need to leave. 

I take my hands away from where they rested in the middle of the table and draw inward, pulling down the sleeves from where they had started to rise up my forearms. He didn’t look like he was staring at my arms, and I can only hope he missed the lines of scars along them. 

_ The smell of burned rubber, smoke, gunpowder, and sweat—it’s in my nose and in my lungs. Broken glass cuts through my skin, tearing at it in long, unified drags. The hard pressure of the knife dragging across my arm before splitting in a bloom of agony— _

“Hey, sunshine.”

The memory stops and the edges of my vision clear—I’m back in the diner; Jason’s face comes into focus, but I can’t make myself smile without effort. “Um, thanks. For this, I mean. I… didn’t know I needed it.”

_ Wow, Miri—you sound like an idiot. Christ. _

I sound like a preteen. 

_ Probably look like one, too. _

I’m cringing, already drawing in and grabbing my bag to bolt after all when Jason clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck. “I’d like to do this—or, something different, it doesn’t have to be waffles—” He breaks off with a mumbled curse, seeming unsure of himself. It’s strange—he’s seemed so self-assured before. Confident. But now he’s tripping over his words as much as I do. “Ah, shit. I’m bad at this,” he mutters to himself.

Something—it’s stupid, naïve, and a feeling that should be dead, crushed under the boot of so many others and the pain and hate I won’t let go of—bubbles up and sits in my chest, expanding it in a way that feels… nice. It’s nerve-wracking, terrifying in a way that I’m grateful is different from what I’ve felt before. But it’s _irrational—_I shouldn’t feel like this. How can I? 

_ Yeah, Miri, how can you? You’re pushing it today. Asking for it all to fall apart. _

Turns out I didn’t learn as much as I thought I did. Or, maybe I keep making the same mistakes because I want someone to prove me wrong. I just don’t know why I want that to be Jason. 

“Yeah, I—” Uncertainty chokes me, and I resist the urge to tug on my hair like I really am a dumbstruck teen. “I’d… like that.” 

_ Don’t cry when it blows up in your face. Just wait for it all to come crashing down. For the nightmares to come back and drowning it with shit that doesn’t work. _

_ “You have nobody—no one! _ Who _ could ever want ya now, hmm?" _

Before Jason can answer, I bolt up from the booth, dropping three twenties on the table and already feeling like every word out of my mouth was a mistake that I tricked myself into making. _ His _voice comes back, echoing and filling my brain. 

_ You’re so stupid—you knew better, Miri. _

“Adina, where’re you going?” Jason calls after me. 

I ignore him, pushing out the door and walking right into the rain. Shivering and holding my arms as I go from being comfortably warm to freezing, I try to work through what’s warping the world around me and figure out which way to go. 

“Adina, hey—” 

A hand grabs my arm and I spin so quickly that trip off the curb. I’m pulled back up, kept from falling into the large, dirty puddle by the gutter. My breathing hitches, clenching my ribs tight and making my vision cloud. But it does clear, and it calms at seeing that it’s Jason and not— 

_ Why did you text him? Why did you bother trying? You’re not worth anything. _

_ Nothing. You’re worth _nothing. 

“Can I give you a ride home at least?” he asks, looking worried. 

My voice catches in my throat, but I nod. I don’t want to walk, be alone. Even though that’s what needs to happen—I need to be away. Shut-up and far from everything I can hurt. 

_ Or can hurt you. _

Jason holds out his jacket for me underneath the eaves of the diner, nodding at me to put it on. With my body aching from the cold and feeling numb from the inside out, I don’t argue or think about it. I shrug it on, taking in the cologne that smells like pine and sage, and the lingering scent of old cigarettes. He doesn’t crowd me, occasionally nudging me along until we get further down the sidewalk. I’m looking for a car, but he stops at a black modified street-bike. The helmet should’ve been a clue, but it’s like my mind’s wading in mud. He hands it to me, waiting until I manage to clip it right and get behind him. 

“Make sure you hang on tight, sunshine.” 

I take the instructions passively until he revs the engine, pulling back the throttle and peeling down the street. The road and cars whip by, Jason only stopping for red lights—and even some of those I’m pretty sure he sped through—and the lights blur together until they're just long streaks passing us by. The helmet on my head is heavy, making my neck feel like it’s wobbling and head off-balance. My arms are wrapped tight around Jason and it feels nice until it doesn’t. Searing pain rips down my chest, carving it open. 

"Now_ you know I'm not going anywhere, hmm? No matter where you go or what you do, you'll _ always _ think of me." _

_ Stop it, Miri—stop it. Don’t think about it. _

He was right. The fucking bastard made sure I’d never forget about him. That I’d always carry him with me, no matter what. It’s counter to what my mind’s screaming at me, but I hold Jason tighter. 

It’s not until the bike turns off that the world forces its way back in, the barrier of sound no longer there to keep it away. 

_ "Ask me to do it." _

His _face isn't visible anymore, only passing shades of colour that meld into a mess of confusion. It's hard to make the words come. His hand cups my face, making me refocus. _

“Ask for what?”

“Adina?”

A hand waves in front of my face, and I almost scream. The memory falls away, and Jason’s face—_Jason’s,_ not _his_—is all that’s there. His finger taps on the helmet and I struggle to get the thing off, feeling stifled and claustrophobic. 

“You said something?” Jason asks, taking the helmet from me and putting it under the crook of his arm. There’s concern and something else, too. He’s being analytical, searching for something in my face—I just don’t know what. 

“No—no,” I say, not convincing anyone and blinking the rain out of my eyes. Looking around, trying to keep the overwhelming thoughts back, I search for which drab apartment building in a sea of many is mine. “I’m this way.” I point down the road, finding the temporary place I rest my head. 

Jason nods. “I’ll walk you there, if that’s cool.” 

It’s nice that he’s still asking, not barging his way into my life like so many others have. We walk in silence; me not knowing what to say and him deliberating some unspoken point. I force in deep breaths of air, feeling how it cools my lungs, the bitter taste of rainwater on my tongue. 

_ You’re fine. Just keep breathing. Breathe. _

We get to the front door, huddling under the small awning. He’s close enough that all I smell is him, and the thoughts hammering in my brain slow. I make an effort to meet Jason’s eye. 

“I’m bad company,” I say, pushing the wet hair off my cheek and only managing a half-grin. Jason’s gaze is heavy, so focused on my face and unwavering. The cold disappears and the heat comes back, not entirely unpleasant. “I hope I didn’t ruin a perfectly good afternoon for you.”

He smiles back, showing a quick flash of teeth and a dimple in his cheek. “Nah, I think you’d have to try pretty hard to ruin my day, sunshine.” I don’t mean to, but I laugh—bursting into a fit of giggles that takes him by surprise. I’m doubled over, almost howling, and Jason chuckles along with me. “What? Was it something I said?”

_ You have no idea, Jason. And I hope you never do. _

I hope he never knows what I _have _ruined, what I can still erode just by being in its proximity. I don’t want to do that to him—but I’m afraid I already have. His words shouldn’t be funny, but they are. It’s a leftover of the madness, peeking through when they irony is just too goddamn much. Wiping at my eyes, I’m about to thank him when my body stops dead, legs almost giving out and heart slamming into a wall.

_ No, no, no, no—he’s dead. He’s _dead. _ You watched him bleed out. You watched his skin— _

A man’s walking down the street. Wearing a big khaki jacket, a cigarette hangs from his lips, his hair black and shaggy. The look in the eyes is the same—so are the notches carved into his skin. I’m looking at Zsasz. 

_ Nonononono— _

I start backing up, never taking my eyes off him and hoping his never find me. 

_ You have to leave. Run, run— _

“What the fuck? Adina, what’s wrong?” 

Jason stands in front of me, eclipsing the view of Zsasz. 

_ Do I tell him or do I run? How could you explain how a man’s back from the dead? Go, go— _

I still don’t know how to fight, how to quash that insurmountable fear. I’m still a coward, looking for someone else to fight my battles for me. Regressing back to being so fucking _weak. _

“Hey—”

I go around Jason, watching to see if Zsasz has a knife, where I need to run, but the man I’m looking at isn’t Zsasz at all. He’s still wearing the same thing—hair still long and black. But his face is completely different. A total stranger, someone I’ve never met before. He walks by, not even glancing at me, and confusion leaves me vulnerable—lets the memories come crawling back, leaving their imprint on my body. The familiar pressure is there—hands touching my skin, pulling at it, pressing hard enough to leave bruises, holding me down and stealing the life from me. 

_ Drink. You need to drink—go to sleep for ten hours. _

But I don’t have booze upstairs. And there’s no way I’m making it to a store. 

“Sorry,” I find myself saying, eyes turning back to him but feeling vacant. “Just… thought I saw someone I knew.”

He's unconvinced. “Then why do you look scared?”

_ Good question. _

I can’t tell him that; why I’m like this. The feelings haven’t left and I know they’ll be worse as soon as he leaves and I have no way to kill them. 

_ Yes, you do. _

“No, just… surprised. Guess I’m still not really… really feeling a hundred percent yet,” I say lamely. Jason’s energy seems to darken, almost turning into brooding. “I’m sorry—I… it’s been a while since I’ve been around good people.”

Jason scoffs and smiles, but it’s hollow. “I’m not ‘good’ people, Adina,” he says under his breath. 

_ Can he tell I’m not either? _

There’s no booze upstairs, but another solution to making the thoughts die for a little while—taking away the feelings that are choking the air from my lungs—is standing right in front of me. One tool might’ve changed, but some stayed the same. 

_ It’s… worked in the past. He wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t into you. You can’t be alone with this. _

I’m seeing Zsasz with his boiled skin, smelling it even as I feel his hands grabbing at my chest. The scar on my sternum burns—the ones on my arms feeling like they’re happening for the first time again. Other feelings follow—that same sense of violation and powerlessness. 

_ Just make it stop. _

_ Make it stop. _

“Do you want to come upstairs?” My voice is so… light. Airy. Detached. This body isn’t mine and it needs a reminder. A block to maintain the distance. 

Jason’s head whips to the side, brows drawing together. “Oh.” He opens his mouth several times as if to speak but doesn’t until a sense of calm comes over him. Something heavy shifts in his eyes and my breathing picks up. “You sure, Adina?” he asks. Even now, he’s giving me the chance to take it back, say I changed my mind. 

But I know what I’m asking for. 

“Yeah, I am.” 

I take his hand, calloused but still soft somehow, in mine and pull him into the building. I don’t know how I manage to navigate anything, I don’t feel the path under my feet or see the walls as they close in. For once, the keys don’t give me trouble—as if they want me to feel better, too. 

_ It’s not real, anyway. Nothing’s real. _

We’re barely in the elevator when I look at him, taking him in like he’s part of a dream. And, for all it matters, he is. One that needs to replace the nightmares coming for me. 

_ Make it stop. _

My body is numb and dead until my lips touch his, small and hesitant at first. Jason’s the same, standing stock still, not touching me for a minute until he pulls back. 

“Hey—hey, you… don’t have to do that,” he says, eyebrows pinching together and looking uncertain.

“I want to.” 

I stay close, waiting to see if I was wrong—that I did misread something. But he doesn’t back away this time. 

“You sure?”

Nodding, I kiss him again, hesitant again until his hands brush along my arms, his helmet dropping to the ground. It feels nice, being close to him. There is no terror here, there is no fear of pain. I’m not afraid of Jason. That makes this easier, but that crushing sense of guilt that’s never far away expands. 

My hands go to his neck, holding him close as his go to my waist, careful not to go higher than my ribs. He’s still being cautious—slow. I don’t want him to be. It’s electric, him touching me. And it does what I need it to—nothing else breaks through. Nothing else matters. 

I don’t realize we’re moving until he’s guiding us out of the elevator when we get to my floor. I barely care, chasing the feeling of him and running away from the rest. “Which one?” he asks in between breaks for air. 

I motion vaguely with my hand, breaking away, lips swollen and hot. Unlocking the door is a task I only half think about, not wanting to be far from him. When I struggle, he takes them from me and unlocks it with ease, and the usual crippling self-consciousness doesn’t follow me into the apartment. I’m not me—it is and isn’t my body—and my mind is drifting a safe distance away. 

_ Make the world stop. _

The door closes and he’s behind me, kissing my neck. I close my eyes and go somewhere else. Somewhere far from here. 

I’m pressed against the wall, his body flush with mine. Memories—unwanted ones—rise and I bury them. My hands go to his chest, his just above my hips. Mine drag down, going to his belt. 

“Whoa there, sunshine,” he says, grabbing my wrists and pulling them away. The nickname brings something back, drags my mind closer. “Just… take it slow. No need for that.” 

“Why do you call me ‘sunshine’?” I ask, out of breath. It sparks a memory, comes with a feeling on my ribs—a reminder of the tattoo etched into my skin, who was there when I got it.

_ Parker… he used to say something similar. So did Mom. _

The thought hits me in a wave, coalescing with everything I’m trying to hold back. 

He stares, face serious and lips brushing against mine without meeting them entirely. “Don’t know. You just… _ are_,” he murmurs. 

_ What are they all seeing? Why can’t I see it myself? _

When I stay still, he draws back, sense returning to his eyes. “Oh—you don’t like that one either?” he asks, pulling away and checking to see if he accidentally hurt me anywhere. His body is bigger than mine, so it’s possible, but I don’t feel anything other than my heart constricting. 

“No, it’s…” 

I can’t finish. What I’m feeling needs to die. It can’t be here—my heart can’t take anymore. _ It can’t. _

_ Make it all stop. _

Jason might be almost twice my size, but I take him by surprise when my body meets his again. I go on tip-toe, kissing him and taking his hands and putting them back on my hips, encouraging him to do more. That’s all I can focus on—the present, the physical sensations that I’ll hate myself for later. That I’ll use as more ammunition to make the next episode worse. 

_ Just like you always do. _

But it doesn’t matter right now. 

_ You don’t matter. _

“Adina, wait—” 

Jason tries to break away but I can’t. When he pulls back, my mouth goes to his neck and hands back to his belt. None of the other men ever said no—never knew what I was doing, and I need Jason to be one of those right now. 

“Hey, stop—”

He’s stronger than me, I never doubted that, but I never imagined that he’d be able to use such precision in exercising it. Jason takes me by the forearms, fingers never digging in hard enough to hurt, and holds me at a distance. His lips are red and intumescent, but his eyes are sharp—the desire ebbing away and pulled back under control. 

_ Why is he stopping? _

“You alright?” he asks. 

For a moment, I don’t know how to answer; my mouth doesn’t work. But Jason is patient, holding me back until he’s certain I’ll stay there. It’s when he lets go of my arms that I find my voice. 

“I—I’m fine.”

Jason—the way he’s looking at me—I don’t like it. He knows I’m lying. He can see it and won’t ignore it. The burning heat leaves and my body dies again, trapping me inside. 

“Then why are you crying?” he asks softly. 

_ Crying? _

I touch my cheeks and realize he’s right. My cheeks are streaked with them, and they don’t stop. Stone-cold reality hits me across the face, sobering me quicker than a bucket of ice water. Shame hits me first. Hits me harder than those times Lewis punched me. With the shame comes the loathing—red hot and scalding. Usually that would come the morning after. When they’d be long gone and I could lie there and pretend I didn’t exist. 

But worse than all of those is the despair. How it claws its way up from the inside, filling my throat and enveloping my heart. It’s always there, one of my constants—its presence reminding me of how much _he _lied, of how alone I’ll always be. 

_ Why did you do any of this? Why did you think things would be different—that you could be any better? _

“Leave.”

Rushing to cover the mess of vitriol tearing me apart is _rage_. My fists curl and I want to hit something. I want to hit it hard enough that my hands bleed and my knuckles break. Pain can take away the rest, swallow me and be my world. I can get lost in pain; it can take away everything else. 

“Adina, I didn’t mean—”

_ Now _he’s coming toward me, but I back up, refusing to look at him. I don’t want to hit him—not like I did before. 

“Get out,” I growl. Anger is good at covering a multitude of things. And I need it to be enough that I don’t break down now. 

“You’re clearly _ not _OK—”

_“Get out!” _I shout, surprising myself at how it sounds. The tears come harder, a sob barely stifled in my chest. “Just… _leave_.” 

But Jason doesn’t listen, trying to come to—what, comfort me? He doesn’t understand and I don’t want him to. My arms hug my chest tight, and everything I managed to shove down is drowning me. 

_ “Please,” _I whisper.

Jason stops, but I can’t look at him—find that familiar look of pity. 

_ Get away. _

The only place to go is the bathroom. Rather than stand here and lose it—inviting him to play the White Knight—I back away until I get there, locking myself in and dropping to the floor. The sobs tear out of me, and I try to muffle them by burying my face in my sleeves. 

“OK, I’m leaving,” Jason says, close on the other side of the door. He doesn’t try to open it, and he sounds tired. No sound of movement comes for a moment, but I can almost imagine him scratching the back of his head. “This isn’t a permanent no, Adina. Fucking _ goddamnit_—” 

His voice dies and quiet comes again. It makes me want to open the door, listen to what he’s going to say. But the deep shame that’s branded onto my skin keeps me still, keeps me wallowing in my own misery—perpetuating the agony that’s the only thing I’m worthy of. 

“I’ll call you tomorrow, OK? And you… can always call me, too.” 

I barely hear him; I’m tearing at my hair like I can pull myself apart. 

_ Stupid, stupid, stupid— _

It's distantly that I register the apartment door opening, the shuffling and heavy steps followed by the click of wood resting back in its frame. He could've robbed me blind if he wanted and I wouldn't have done anything. 

_ It doesn't matter_. 

Numbness finds me quickly, settling in and making my eyes dry. The grout of the bathroom tile is stained and dirty, each speck and peel distinct against a blur of muddy white. 

The distance I need comes later, allowing me to settle down and lose the power in my arms. Exhaustion isn't far behind. 

_ Just… try to go to sleep. _

Inching my way up, I grab the chipped porcelain sink and stand. Washing the remnants of _that_ from my face, the water cold and biting, I go back into the apartment. I asked Jason to leave, but now part of me wishes he had stayed. 

_ That's because you're pathetic. _

_“‘Adina’?" _

The panic is so much that it transcends my body's ability to be able to scream. But another response is immediate—I'm close enough to the kitchen island to grab a knife. Before I can even use it, find where the voice came from, a familiar shape stands apart from the dark. He's been on the news every day, the obsession the world won't let go of. Ultimately, it's the stupid ears on his head that give him away.

_ “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” _ The urge to throw the knife in my hand at him is strong. I drop it back on the counter when I find my rage again. “Why would you just—why are you just standing in the corner like—like a fucking _weirdo?! ” _

Bruce—or, rather, _Batman _is standing by an open window to the left of my bed. The signs of my new habit at his feet. Something close to hatred clouds everything. 

_ But you know you're not really angry at him. _

_ Doesn't matter. _

“Get out. You’re trespassing," I say, glaring and turning my back on him to get a glass of _something. _

He steps out from the corner but seems hesitant to come into the fading light in what counts as the living room. “We need to talk.” He can’t even talk normally, his voice deep and gravelly. 

_ That’s because the Bruce you knew _is_ dead__. He never came back. _

“No, we don’t.” 

I turn on the lights out of spite. He blinks once, his eyes adjusting, and I take him for what he is. His body armour, or whatever it is, looks rough—damaged. Like someone took a knife to it. Repeatedly. Half his face is obscured by the mask, but he looks borderline haggard. But he mostly looks like a man holding onto a delusion. I was right, Bruce doesn't like to look back—but he doesn't know how to look to the future either. Not in the ways that matter. 

“Miri—”

“What? You can’t even—can’t even see me outside of that stupid _ fucking _getup?” The built-up anger, the swirl of everything this day has turned out to be, is a tempest battering my chest. It needs to get out. I don't have alcohol and I don't have someone to take it all away—the only recourse I have left is wrath. “You want something.”

He doesn't answer, and I know I'm right. Shaking my head, unable to stare at him any longer, I start forming the accusations I want to lob at him. They burn my throat, poisoning me before I can try doing it to him. 

“It’s not that simple.” 

“Sure it is,” I say. With how things are, _ everything _that's left between us is simple. The history between us is divorced from the present. It has to be. My heart couldn't take it otherwise. “What do you want, Bruce?” I ask again. 

Bruce’s mouth doesn’t even open. He’s just staring, taking the apartment—how it’s a mess, the cans and bottle of empty wine—before landing on me. I know what he’s seeing, and I wish he couldn’t. I also wish none of this had happened, that the time away had taken the sting—the ever-present reminders, the history carved onto our faces. But it hasn’t. 

_ And it never will. _

“I need your help,” he says. 

“You, the great _ Detective, _ resident pariah of Gotham City, need _ my _help?” I scoff. 

Downing the glass of water in my hand, I rub at my head, attempting to ease away the headache forming behind my eyes and the overwhelming desire to scream that’s coming up like bile. After _ The Siege,_ Batman’s position in the public opinion went from hopeful to tenuous at best. No one can decide on a stable opinion, but they all blame their problems on him with gusto. 

“Yes.”

I laugh like I did outside with Jason, short barks like a hyena—more an expression of pain than humour. But there it is—that wonderful sense of cosmic irony; life coming back full circle. As quick as it shook me, it dies. I stay leaning on the counter—it’s the only thing holding me up as the world spins. 

“No.”

That’s the only answer he’ll get from me. I look up long enough to dare him to challenge me on it. His head tilts to the side, chest deflating. I’ve disappointed him. 

_ Good. About time that got shared between us. _

He starts towards me, not knowing how to be in the light as a man dressed up in an overpriced costume. “People are dying—being murdered. I need your—”

His words don’t really click—it’s nonsense. Something he’d never draw me into. I back up, not wanting any less than five feet between us. Not after everything. I don’t know what I’d do—punch him in the jaw or hug him. And I don’t want to do either. 

“Get out, Bruce.”

For once, he takes a hint. Sighing, he shifts, coming across as… awkward. 

_ That’s new. _

“Why are—”

“Why _ what?” _ I cut him off, fists curling tight as I try to control my voice. “You don’t get to play ignorant with me. Who didn’t bother to see me and wanted to play _hero_ instead? Who didn’t care enough to call while I was gone? Send one email, a text? Who was it that decided to put his delusions of grandeur over everything else? Where were you when _ I _ needed your help, Bruce? _ Me.” _

The tears come again and I don’t want them to. Wiping at my skin hard enough to focus on that instead of what’s in front of me, I try to think. It’s hard—_so _hard. I want to be high, drunk— _ anything _other than how this feels. I’m hurting, and even if it’s nothing new, it’s something I don’t know how to live with. I can’t make it go away, but that dark part of me—the one that’s never far away anymore—wants someone else to feel like this, too. 

Thoughts of Mom come up with that desire, but I crush it before it can hold my tongue. “You couldn’t even help Rachel. Look where that got her.”

He takes a step back like I hit him. Taking one long blink, Bruce’s eyes—as obscured as they are by the black greasepaint around them—look vulnerable. And I know he feels it because he won’t look at me. 

“I’m sorry,” he says.

I want to believe that’s true, that he is and that things will change. The happy, stupid dream I have of going back in time, to that place where things were alright, seeps through. The desire to hold onto it, to make it real—even if it’s just for the sake of trying—squeezes my heart. 

“No, you’re not. If you were, you wouldn’t be doing this.”

He shakes his head. “I’ve been watching you—”

“Watching me? You’ve been _ watching me?” _ Whatever I was just feeling dies. I should’ve seen this coming: That he’d content himself with playing voyeur and patting himself on the back as if that counted as a form of involvement, of _caring. _“You don’t get that right. You don’t get to do this—pop up when you want to and just—” 

I have to cut myself off. Squeezing the glass in my hand so hard I can feel it starting to crack, my jaw tightens so hard I think my teeth will split. Self-admonishment, hatred, shame, embarrassment, anger, and just all-consuming _desperation—_for things to be different, for _me _to be different, for him to be the man I remember—hurts just as much as everything _he _and Zsasz did. For the first time since everything happened, the wish for death presses on my mind like a knife in the chest. But not for Bruce’s—for mine. 

“Get out. You shouldn’t have come here,” I whisper. I’m losing all control and I need to be alone. 

But, once again, Bruce only sees what he wants to—putting the _mission_ above everything else. His useless crusade that will result in _nothing. _

“People have been tortured, escaped from somewhere and driven mad. They tear out their own eyes, self-cannibalize, and they die _ terrified— _”

“I’m not helping you.”

“Three people already dead, and more _will _follow. Are you going to ignore that?”

He’s going for the guilt-trip tack now, but I’m too numb for it to work. My heart’s been severed, imploding on its own as feral self-preservation tries to save what’s left. 

“Just… leave me alone. It’s what you’re good at, isn’t it?”

His face falls, that drive in him pulling back and replaced by something close to human again. “Miri—”

_“No. No—_leave. I don’t want to see you, don’t you get it? Haven’t I hurt enough for knowing you?” A sob wracks my chest and I hate myself for it. 

_ Why did I leave today? Why did I think anything could be different? _

_ Why do I still have to be here? _

The message seems to sink in. He backs further away, to the window he slunk through to make everything worse, just like he always does. 

“Alfred… he misses you, Miri.” 

_ ‘We both do.’ _

But he doesn’t say that. God forbid that _Batman _be anything close to human. The man I always looked up to is gone—erased and swallowed whole. I knew that before—this shouldn’t be a surprise. But it is and it’s tearing what’s left of me apart. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I want to genuinely hurt someone. I want to hurt _him—_I want to watch his lifeblood leave him and take his soul with it like it might repair mine. 

But it won’t. Can’t. 

_ You don’t matter. _

That scream comes after all, and with it a burst of rage. I throw the glass in my hand—aiming for his head but missing and making it smash against the wall instead. 

He doesn’t even flinch. 

_ “Get out!” _

My wish for solitude is finally fulfilled. In as much time it took to muffle the shouted insults I wanted to hurl at him, he’s gone—the only markers to prove he was here at all are the shards of glass on the floor and the wet imprint of boots. But, through the tears, I see something else. On the coffee table is something small and black. 

Coming closer, wiping at my eyes to make sure they’re working right, I pick up a small chip in my hand. It’s barely smaller than my pinky nail, but it’s a chip alright. Encased in some silicone lining—the kind used for implants in living organisms so they don’t break down as quickly. 

_ Probably what he wants you to do. _

I need something to dull this, to take out the knife that’s bleeding me dry. Setting the chip down, I go to my bags and dig until I find what I’m looking for. The bottle of valium. 

_ Doesn’t matter, does it? You’re broken all the same. _

Taking four, I swallow them dry. Everything in me drains away, leaving the burning on my sternum as the only sign that I can still feel anything at all. It doesn’t take long, that familiar hold that I knew so well in high school finds me. It’s soft and soothing, taking the blunt edge of the world away, smothering them. 

_ Is this who you want to be, Miri? _

_Those _thoughts again. The ones I always think have left me behind. They always come just after I give in, as if to keep reminding me how weak I am. 

_ You didn’t survive all of that for this to be all that’s left for you. _

“Make up your mind,” I murmur to myself. It’s as if I’m split in two, the halves never meeting and tearing each other apart instead. 

_ Why haven’t you tried putting them back together? _

All too suddenly, I regret taking the pills—fighting to stay awake, to keep trying to think through this. 

_ You didn’t try before because it hurt. It was easier to pretend it didn’t happen if you took away all the reminders. What about now—who are you going to be? Stay in the same place, or fight for something different? _

But, before I can think any more, the pills smother me, too—take me by the hand and lead me down into the dark. And, just for now, I welcome it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know things are still pretty hard for Miri - but trauma of that magnitude that she experienced takes a _lot_ of time to process - and that's with therapy and a good support system (often), and Miri isn't willing to accept any of those things. She's making progress, and it comes at a huge cost at the moment, but it _does_ get better. Having her jump from completely traumatized to being fine and functioning would be disingenuous, and I want y'all to walk that journey with Miriam. How that looks sometimes is rough and very much unhealthy, but those are all things that are part of a process. I hope you'll hang in there with me and see where I'm taking all this! 
> 
> Thank you again to [Khaosprinz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khaosprinz/pseuds/Khaosprinz) for all her help, input, advice, and proofreading for this!


	5. False Faces in Strange Places

"Why do you take these jobs?"

It was a genuine question he was asking himself, one he didn't have a real answer to. Paulie Byrne took this gig at the recommendation of an old friend—one of many in the line of work he kept telling himself he was going to leave but never did. The money was good. _Real_ good. He could make more at this job in six months than in the two years he'd sunk in as a low-level lieutenant with the Chechen. And then there was the bonus of the diminished risk of going to prison—this job looked to be as legit as any he'd taken before.

He reminded himself of that, but it didn't ring true as he stood in the loading bay of Janus Cosmetics.

"Hey."

Turning, he saw the man who hired him, Bryan Gross. Wearing a tailored Versace suit, hair slicked back and gold watch gleaming on his wrist, Bryan gave Paulie a nod of greeting as he approached. Paulie's hands were sweating, but he didn't know what to do with them—wipe them on the pant legs of the new suit he couldn't afford or stick them in pockets that weren't meant to have one's meaty hands shoved in. He was saved having to decide; Bryan wasn't interested in shaking hands.

"Good, you're early. Boss likes _punctual."_

Paulie nodded, trailing along behind Bryan as he walked across the concrete expanse, weaving past large pallets stacked high with wood boxes marked with the company emblem—two faces back to back, one of a young man and the other old, their visages painted black. Paulie had learned a long time ago that staring too long at anything he wasn't directly ordered to was a bad idea, so he stopped looking at the crates, at the hints of cargo that didn't look anything like cosmetics that he could see—limited as that was—peeking from inside the packing peanuts.

"Another thing the boss likes…" Bryan trailed off, swiping a keycard and calling an elevator when they reached a back hall, the walls tall, narrow, and a white so bright that Paulie had to squint, eyes watering. "Don't stare too long. He ain't paying you to be an equal—just stare ahead unless directly spoken to, got it?"

Paulie nodded, squaring his shoulders and widening his stance. Head-honchos acting like uptight, pretentious pricks wasn't something he was unused to. In this line of work, getting treated like the shit on the bottom of someone's shoe came up with the job description. He might be dressing better and be in nicer buildings, but nothing was different from any other time in Paulie's life since he'd turned twenty-three.

He was getting paid to be the hired muscle, letting no one who wasn't supposed to get too close. He'd done it before, but never for someone so high profile.

_But no less crooked, _he thought.

Not like he was one to talk, making a living acting as a human meat-wall and beating—sometimes shooting—anyone his employer pointed a finger at. It wasn't a job he was bad at.

When the elevator doors opened, Paulie found himself in the middle of a large lobby, decorated with black marble broken up by blinding white, just like it was in the hall, the contrast so sharp it hurt his eyes. It was difficult to look at anything.

_Hope no one takes a shot in here. Ain't no way I'd see shit._

But Bryan seemed immune to it, walking ahead unaffected. Paulie followed close behind, approaching a double set of black doors. An uncharacteristic spasm made his heart skip for a moment at the sound of voices on the other side.

"I think you should reconsider."

It was a woman's voice, calm and measured. And, if Paulie's previous experience with his ex-girlfriends was anything to go by, annoyed.

"If you mean my special order, then you can go fuck yourself, Brenda."

Bryan knocked softly before opening the door, revealing an extravagant office bordering on gaudy with five others inside.

"No, I'm talking about—"

Three other men in suits were positioned around the room, each with small plastic earpieces. Even wearing the nicest suit Paulie had ever owned, he was still under-dressed. The woman—he assumed the aforementioned Brenda, as she was the only woman in the room—was short, with dark skin and tight, brown curly hair, and stood next to a large ebony desk. Holding a large tablet and stylus, she didn't even look at Paulie and Bryan as they entered, keeping her attention focused on the man sitting, an entire wall of glass illuminated by Gotham's highrises framing him, behind the desk.

Roman Sionis definitely had a different presence in person than what Paulie had read of him in the papers.

"Oh, my—_Christ. _We've talked about this. If it _works_, it works." Roman was good-looking and lean, and his suit looked too big, almost purposely so. It was a white that boarded on silver, the shirt underneath a matte black. Paulie was starting to pick out a theme. "God, it's like working for my _mother_."

Brenda's laugh was loud and clear, but Paulie didn't see any trace of humour on her face, even as her smile stayed in place. "I think you'd be listening to me more if I was."

"Heh, don't count on that." It was Roman's turn to laugh, but he actually seemed to mean it. Paulie felt a chill go down his spine. "I understand where you're coming from, I really do. Put simply, he's an asset. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, eh? Or, er—the… the previous friend of my enemy is my friend." He trailed off in thought, pushing back his brown hair and knocking his knuckles against the desk.

"Was that even a real sentence?"

"Don't be rude. You're supposed to agree with me."

Bryan made no move to introduce him, so Paulie stood back, mimicking Bryan's posture. He was beginning to feel very awkward—too unsure. Listening in on conversations before being properly introduced to the boss seemed backwards to him, but he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut.

"That's not what you pay me for, though, is it?" she said, leaning on one of the leather chairs next to the desk, her foot tapping against the red rug to an unheard beat. "I'm just not keen on adding a few more psychotics into the mix. Too many variables, don't you think?"

Roman shrugged, his grin widening even as his gray eyes went cold. "Know what they say, 'when in Rome'." It wasn't until he cocked his head to the side that he saw the new addition and gave Paulie a quick once over before addressing Brenda. "Who's this?"

Brenda only afforded Paulie one quick look over her shoulder before turning her attention back to Roman. "The new addition to your personal detail. Bumping up security in light of recent developments is never a bad thing. Not like you can't afford it."

For reasons he shouldn't have, Paulie felt slighted. He'd been in the game for years and managed to keep a good rep, and that was more than could be said about his new employer. For a new guy rising through the ranks in Gotham, this guy was arrogant. He might've come from Chicago, but Paulie didn't know how long a weasel like this would last.

_Not the greatest way to think about the cash cow you're expected to bleed for._

He shook his head. Best to get the mutinous thoughts out early, sink into a routine where he acted and didn't think.

"You'd know. Up in the books like you live there." Roman turned his attention back to Paulie. He met Roman's eyes briefly before remembering what Bryan had told him, and his face went hot as he cast his eyes over Roman's shoulder. "What's your name? C'mon, what's your name?" he asked, waving his hand at Paulie to step forward.

He did as he was told, fixing his gaze just past Roman's ear and onto his own reflection in the glass. "Paulie. Paulie Byrne, sir."

"Paulie? _Paulie?"_ Roman looked around, incredulous for reasons Paulie couldn't name. He started to sweat. "Fuck me half-way to Chicago—bunch of walkin' fucking clichés. Am I stuck in _Goodfellas? _Jesus Christ, have mercy on me."

Being embarrassed of his own name wasn't something Paulie had experienced before, and he quickly attempted to swallow his pride and his rejoinders. He settled for nodding and stepping back in deference, chewing on his tongue to kill the words sitting on it.

"Got some news on Red Hood," Bryan said, stepping forward and producing a tablet. The name rang a bell with Paulie. Waiting for Roman to give a nod of approval, he continued, "He stole another shipment."

"What was it this time?" Roman asked; exasperated, it seemed, more than anything.

But Bryan still hesitated, and it wasn't until Roman levelled a glare piercing enough that Paulie's skin crawled just from being in the presence of it that Bryan spoke. "The new shipment of product—it's gone."

"Gone meaning _in_ _use _or gone as in—"

"He set them on fire. Just outside the Rabbit Hole."

The two hands slamming onto the table palms down was a surprise for Paulie, who flinched but didn't jerk back. Roman's face—which was comparatively calm before—was now a carving of wrath.

"Son of a goddamn _bitch," _he growled, fists curling. Roman didn't look so handsome anymore. "Bunch of bastards probably got high for free, too. What a _waste_. That was some quality shit, Brenda."

His voice went light, almost jovial, but his expression undermined everything. Roman looked about ready to unleash his anger onto some unlucky bastard.

_Don't let it be me, _Paulie thought.

"But we'll find him—"

Roman cut him off with a glance, and Bryan returned to being a silent statue just like Paulie was. "I'm ahead of you there, at least. I know where he is. At the moment, anyway. Fuckin' _rat_ that he is," he mumbled.

Producing a tablet from a drawer, Roman stared at it intensely, everyone else in the room seemingly forgotten. Paulie couldn't see what was on the other side, but he had a good idea about what it was by the targeted look of malice Roman was directing at it.

_This job just got a lot harder than I thought it'd be._

After all the shit that went down a year and a half ago, Paulie thought he was done dealing with high-stakes pissing matches. But it seemed he was wrong.

"Why didn't you say anything, Roman?" Brenda asked, glaring and coming around the desk to stare at the screen with him. She was admonishing him, immune to the power his aura gave off that cowed the rest of them.

_Maybe it _is _like working with his mother, _he thought.

She might've been small, but Paulie couldn't underestimate her, either.

"He's a goddamn _nuisance _and a thieving bitch, but I'm not too worried yet. He's just a gnat biting my side. _That's _what I pay you for," Roman said, pointing at the five men in turn. "I like to keep the lights on, see where the roaches run—no surprises that way."

Setting down the tablet, Roman barked an address at them and laid down the terms of engagement. Paulie was grateful that he'd been smart enough to be packing heat that night. Whereas Paulie would've been expecting rabid energy from the men running in the Chechen's crew, the men in Roman's employ stayed calm, professional. And Paulie was eager to prove that he was on their level, that he didn't have a bad feeling growing in his gut.

"So crush him—poison him, _something_—I don't care. I want him _dead_, capiche?" Roman asked, leaning so far back in his chair Paulie thought he was going to tip over. The men nodded and turned to leave when Roman smacked a palm against his forehead. "God, now _I _sound like a cliché. Goddamn contagious. _Jesus."_

Looking around the room, Paulie started to second guess himself again.

_Too late now._

It might've been his first night, but Paulie was going hunting for the Red Hood.

* * *

The night was cold and the wind biting, but Red Hood was glad for the reprieve from the rain. Meant he could see better and didn't have to wipe at his domino mask every five goddamn seconds. Even all this time later, the shipping yards of Gotham were no more patrolled than they were a year and a half ago. He wasn't sure if that was because of blatant stupidity or remnants of the pervasive police corruption that ate away at Gotham like rotting teeth, but it didn't matter in the end. It was just a place and time like any other, and this was just more convenient: A good hosting spot for the main event.

Red Hood knew who was coming—and watching—and the men below were _definitely _expecting him, but they weren't counting on the guest that would inevitably be barrelling down soon. Watching how the pissants ran their day-to-day operations wasn't easy and it took time—sometimes more than he had—but the payoff was worth it. There wasn't much about who and what ran Gotham that Red Hood didn't know, and he intended on keeping the advantage.

_You'd think experience would make them less blind, but it doesn't._

He adjusted the position of his binoculars, scanning the horizon and accounting for how many dumb bastards Black Mask bothered to post for the delivery. Tapping the comm piece in his ear, Red Hood kept his eyes alert as he spoke.

"They lookin' at the feed, Eddie?" he asked.

There was a short pause, an angry exhale. Red Hood smirked and was disappointed his little friend couldn't see it. _"Told you not to call me that,"_ was the reply.

Red Hood's smirk grew. "Are they or not?"

Another angry exhale, a small growl of annoyance. It was too easy to get a reaction out of him. _"Yeah, they're watching."_

If Eddie wasn't lying—and Red Hood was sure he wasn't, the guy seemed to have a compulsion to tell the truth even if he hid them in brain teasers—then Black Mask thought he was on the roof half a click across the yard. And Eddie would make sure they kept thinking he was there.

"_Good." _Red Hood slid the binoculars into an inside pocket of his leather jacket, crouching down into position as he pulled out his M24 from the bag at the edge of the rooftop he'd been occupying for the last three hours. "Make sure that doesn't change for me, will ya?"

Eddie scoffed, _"Oh yeah, _sure_. Whatever you say, _Boss Man."

He was still feeling resentful, but Red Hood had no sympathy for him. Edward Nigma served a purpose, just like everything else. He'd get over it or he'd be down one kneecap, Red Hood wasn't picky.

_Or be dead. That was an option, too._

But Eddie was smart, pragmatic—and mutual interests would win out.

"_Mr. _Boss Man to you, _Edward."_

If it wasn't for the faint sound of fingers hitting a keyboard, Red Hood would have thought the line was dead. _"I liked Eddie better," _came the eventual answer.

"Make up your fucking mind then," Red Hood said, the voice modifier taking away the playful edge and making it menacing. "Send out the signal. I'll call to confirm at 0200."

_"What smells bad when alive and good when dead?" _Eddie asked just before he ended the call.

_Another riddle._

The guy was fond of them, that was clear. Red Hood sighed, deciding to play along.

"Bacon."

_"Wrong answer!" _No it wasn't, Red Hood had heard this one before, but Eddie didn't give him a chance to give a rejoinder._ "It's _you."

Eddie hung up just as Red Hood started laughing so hard that the modifier couldn't totally change the sound, letting some of his natural voice peek through.

_He's bitter alright. But he'll get over it._

Eddie had better if he knew what was good for him.

Roman was in his cushy seat up in his highrise, thinking he had the Red Hood in the crosshairs. It was too bad that Roman didn't have the brains to think outside the box. He'd be sending his men into a deathtrap, not even aware that the man they were after wouldn't be where they thought he was and that they'd be losing more than a little bit of product. The bastards really made it too easy sometimes.

_It's what happens when they underestimate one man._

That's what they'd done to the Batman when his blight came to Gotham almost three years ago. It's what they had done to the Joker before he nearly tore the city apart. And they were doing it again, and Red Hood was all too willing to take advantage of the show of stupidity.

He flexed his hands every so often as the next twenty minutes wore on, keeping the blood flowing as he maintained a static position. His breaths were deep and even, his head calm and clear. That's how he needed to be when _he _showed up, when Red Hood would finally get to test the man he'd been watching for so long, restraining himself to learn through observation rather than through practice.

But the time for that was over. It was time for them to engage, for Red Hood to find out _exactly _what Batman could dish out when he had the advantage of surprise. Red Hood would be the one to set the terms of engagement, dictate the rules Batman would follow even if he didn't realize it yet.

And he didn't need to wait long. Hearing the vehicle before seeing it come into view, Batman arrived with his souped-up _Bat-Tank_, as Red Hood had been calling it, and parked on the perimetre before killing the engine. Just like he had so many nights before, he watched Batman through the scope of his rifle as he climbed and vaulted across the shipping containers, heading right for the broadcast that would lead to the night's fireworks.

Black Mask wouldn't be expecting it.

Neither would Batman.

He might not die that night, but Batman would be in his grave soon enough. And Red Hood would be the one to put him there.

* * *

His face hurt more than usual. Whether it was because of the burns needing another round of treatment to stave off the lingering infection he couldn't seem to kick for any length of time, or because of the stares directed at the bad side of his face was unclear to him. He wouldn't be able to tell _who _was staring unless he turned his head, and Two-Face was unwilling to appear self-conscious.

_Need to see that doctor again, _he thought.

It was a begrudging relationship, one with interactions that he avoided, but dying of sepsis wasn't how he wanted to go out after getting two bullets in his shoulder and being burned half-way to hell. The doctor had lost his license, but Two-Face could hardly go anywhere else without worrying about being recognized. And he was permanently branded, unable to enjoy the benefits of anonymity. Harvey Dent was dead, but Two-Face had survived. 

_Barely._

Anger came with the memory of Jim Gordon's face. Anger and guilt. One emotion was much more preferable to the other. Fate might not have been kind, but Chance had been on his side for all this time; questioning it wasn't an option.

The man sitting in front of him also made Two-Face angry. It was the look about him—his handsome, unmarked skin and grin as he stared at Two-Face's own disfigured visage. Roman Sionis hadn't been a player back when Harvey Dent was District Attorney, but his type had been exactly like all the others Dent had worked to take down.

Two-Face realized what it was that bothered him the most—Roman reminded him too much of Salvator Maroni.

They'd interacted a few times in the past, mostly with Two-Face negotiating deals to stay off the police radar in exchange for information, but this… _position_ was a new development. One Two-Face didn't like but accepted anyway. Chance had made her decision, passed the verdict down through his coin, and to ignore it wasn't an option. He was there for a reason, and Chance would guide him the rest of the way.

Despite that decision, Two-Face refused to speak first, prolonging the uneasy silence between the two. A woman—Two-Face thought her name was Brenda but wasn't sure—sat a small distance from them, typing away on a tablet. One thing that hadn't eroded over the last eighteen months, while Two-Face struggled to survive and evade arrest, was his resolve and abject stubbornness, and he wasn't about to let go of it now.

It paid off—Roman cracked first.

"Look, excuse me if I'm being, well, _presumptuous_, to think you and I have a lot in common—"

"No, we don't," Two-Face interrupted. But Roman was far too eager to keep hearing the sound of his own voice.

"We try to show our _true_ faces to the world and it just doesn't work out, does it?" he finished.

The severe contracture scarring that twisted the entire left side of his head kept him from turning it in disbelief, so Two-Face settled for narrowing his remaining eye and glaring. "Once your face looks like mine, _then _we can talk. You wear a mask. _That's_ not showing your face at all," he growled.

Roman wasn't wearing the mask now—Two-Face knew he liked to keep it for _special _occasions, every half-wit crawling through the underside of Gotham knew that—but the reference to any sort of kinship between them was incensing. The hypocrisy and arrogance in the comment just demonstrated how little Roman really knew, that he was playing at things he didn't understand.

_Guess that's why he wants to pay _you _to understand._

Two-Face was lucky in that his mouth was already twisted up in a permanent sneer; one perk in a sea of suffering that marked his everyday reality. Roman wore gimp masks and thought it enhanced his philosophy, but, to Two-Face, it demonstrated just how much the people in this city were clamouring to be crowned King of the Insane.

_You're not much different, though, are you?_

Two-Face shook the thought away. Voices of doubt that lingered on the outskirts of his mind were getting louder, putting him at risk of being weak. He shoved them back, just like he always did.

Roman threw his hands up, trying to avoid offense and failing anyway. "Agree to disagree, hey?" he said, to which Two-Face gave no reply. Roman didn't stop smiling, his voice dripping with the same sort of oiliness that kept his hair slicked back. "All business? That's fine. Professional. I like that."

Two-Face didn't give a damn what Roman did or didn't like, but necessity as much as chance drove him here. Rather than totally kill the deal based on resentment and impulse, he remained silent. Roman seemed to like that—it gave him a chance to keep talking.

"Gotham's a new town because of you. The pool of workers is no less diminished, what with the whole collapse of that whole RICO thing you had goin'. The same names—well, what's left—are still around, and you know them better than anyone, don't you? Now, the type of work I need—"

"I don't work _for _you," Two-Face interrupted again. He didn't like where Roman was going with this. He wouldn't be a lackey for _anyone._

Roman leaned back in his chair, throwing up his hands again and his eyebrows shooting up in a false expression of innocence. "No. Never said you did—or _would _be."

_Oh, but that is _exactly _what he was going to say._

"Maybe I misunderstood," Two-Face said, taking his gaze away and reaching inside his suit jacket pocket. His voice was still level as he felt the familiar weight, the smooth shape of his coin, but it was close to changing—tipping over into the familiar territory of rage. Drawing it, he started flipping the two-sided coin across his fingers.

"Honestly, Harvey, your expertise is invaluable. There's a lot to be gained in _knowledge. _I know that. I consider our endeavours to be more of a… partnership than anything."

The entire side of his face spasmed at Roman's _lies_, contracting further into a painful knot that made his bones ache. If he had let it be treated sooner, he knew it would have healed well enough to reduce the physical pain he was in every day. But he deserved the agony his face brought. It was an early penance he'd willingly pay for what he'd done, what he wouldn't stop doing.

"Don't patronize me," Two-Face scoffed, stopping the progress of the coin and flipping it, going a little higher each time. He wasn't looking at the results, hadn't asked the questions that would necessitate an answer just yet.

"He wasn't," one of Roman's men at his side said, stepping forward like a lapdog to _remind _Two-Face about the concept of respect. Roman had done nothing to deserve it, and so he would get none. A relationship of mutual benefit was different than one of mutual aims for collaboration. Two-Face's glare wasn't enough, the yuppie kept speaking, "He was being professional, and that's all that we ask of you—"

Two-Face finally looked at the coin after he tossed it in the air, catching it with one hand and slapping it on the armrest of his chair before pulling out his side revolver and shooting the idiot in front of him in the leg. The man fell to the ground, holding the limb and screaming. Two-Face slid the gun back in its place as the other men in the room drew theirs and levelled the barrels at him. His expression never changed, and as he looked up, he saw Roman's hadn't either.

"I get it. You're unpredictable. I can work with that," Roman said, cocking his head to the side and considering Two-Face, neutral even as the man on the ground was dragged out of the room by the remaining guards, the long streaks of blood signalling that Two-Face had managed to hit a major artery.

Two-Face went back to rolling his coin over his fingers. Roman was wrong. Chance had a pattern, a way to predict—a set of rules that allowed for a narrow set of outcomes. And, if he wasn't careful, Two-Face would have no qualms with showing Roman _exactly _what those rules were.

"What do you want to know, Roman? Your little empire isn't enough for you, so you have to start poking the hornet's nest?" Two-Face asked. Roman's face was still deadpan, eyes dark and black. "If you're not careful, you'll have more to worry about than the GCPD."

Like Homeland Security. The FBI. Or the Department of Defense. It didn't especially matter to Two-Face whether those investigations ever manifested; his life only had one outcome and it was only a matter of _when _it would happen and not _if._

For the first time, Roman smiled widely, showing all his teeth and reclining back in his chair as he looked at Two-Face from down his nose.

"I want to know _everything."_

Two-Face reached for the glass of scotch on the small table beside him, taking a swig even as it burned like liquid fire down his throat. When he had thought of potential career paths as a young man, he had never considered information broker and criminal-consultant would have ever been in the cards for himself.

_And yet here we are._

He didn't remember what it felt like to smile—not since the last time he saw Rachel—but the small curling of the remaining corner of his lip was enough to make Roman break out in laughter.

* * *

"Whaddya mean you're not sending a unit?!" Harvey Bullock shouted, nearly kicking over one of the small chairs in front of Jim Gordon's desk.

Not flinching, Gordon leaned forward onto his desk, resting heavily on his elbows. He wasn't surprised at Bullock's reaction—just bone-tired. Being Commissioner hadn't curbed the late nights and the stress that followed him everywhere. But being yelled at in his office by his subordinates was still better than going home. That was a larger problem that didn't have a clear path to untangle.

"Exactly what I said, Detective," Gordon said at last, picking up a report on the desk and pretending to read it over, even though his eyes weren't taking in any of the details. He just wanted Harvey to leave him alone.

But Bullock was never one for reading social cues.

"That's bullshit and you know it. You know where that rat in tights is goin' and if there's trouble comin', we need to be there for—"

"_I _decide what we need to be there for. The call is unsubstantiated. I'm not sending a lone unit to that part of Gotham without backup. It'll have to wait."

His tone was meant to indicate that the matter was finished; Harvey wouldn't get what he wanted. Batman's armoured tank had been spotted zooming towards the East End, but Gordon hoped that it was to follow up leads on the murders.

_Or any other major case that's giving me an aneurysm._

That was an exaggeration, but Gordon's heart rate hadn't exactly been _good _since the night his life had both exploded _and _imploded in on itself.

Bullock shook his head, scowling. "Nah, say whatever you want, but you're soft on him. That _freak _mocks our jobs on a nightly basis and you just let him—"

"Watch your tone, Bullock," Gordon interrupted, his own voice creeping towards the edge of hostility. But he found his calm once again, keeping up the mask of pragmatism that he wanted to drown in bourbon. "You can be angry, you can be unhappy with the calls I make, but keep it to yourself and follow orders."

Bullock's face went red, making his five o'clock shadow seem darker than it already was. He'd already clocked in ten hours of work that day, and Gordon was eager to send him home to get him out of his office if nothing else.

"Just—"

"Commissioner Gordon?"

Both men turned toward the door at the sound of the knock, and Gordon was relieved to see the receptionist standing there. She looked hesitant, hand still held up and half-way through the doorframe.

"Yes, Patricia?"

Gordon tried to smile, but even that took too much energy and it translated into his moustache twitching slightly.

"Mayor Hill is here to see you," she said, giving him a nod before standing back from the door.

Bullock moved to leave, but Gordon held up his hand. Dealing with the mayor alone was never his favourite activity and one he'd grown to attempt to avoid. It was a part of the job description that he hated the most, and doing it alone seemed less preferable than having someone to at least bear the experience with.

"No, stay, Bullock," he said, quiet enough just for Bullock to hear. Looking surprised, Bullock didn't go to leave but took position against the wall to Gordon's left.

The woman who walked through the door looked harmless enough—her hair blonde like wheatgrass, dress suit gray and unwrinkled and wearing makeup that looked painted on with a fine hand. Her smile was disarming, but her eyes were cold and the lines of her face severe.

"Mayor Hill," Gordon said in greeting, rising to wave to one of the empty chairs that took on a whole new meaning of inadequacy in her presence.

"James, how many times do I have to say 'call me Arianna'? No need to be so formal."

"Right." Gordon tried not to wince. The only people who had called him _James _were his grandparents, and he had hated it then as much as he did now. He wondered if she could tell, and whether she did it just for that reason. "What can I help you with? Awfully late for a visit."

"The work that needs to be done in Gotham doesn't stop after five o'clock, does it?" she said, taking a seat and ignoring Bullock's presence entirely. Gordon tensed, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

_Always how it is with her._

It started with increased patrols and stop-and-searches in the East End, upping the bounty on Batman and adding new charges to the warrant for his arrest, using new tactical measures against the remaining gangs, pressuring Gordon to emphasize the use of deadly force and acting with extreme prejudice against suspects. She was going to add something else to the list, and there were only so many ways that he could keep sidestepping and working around it. Gordon resisted the urge to pull at the collar of his dress shirt that had seen better days.

"I wanted to check in with you. I've been hearing about some movement in the East End. Anything I should be worried about?" she asked, picking a stray ball of fuzz off her pencil skirt with the tips of her fingernails and dropping it onto the office carpet.

"What do you mean?"

Hill smiled, tight-lipped and more of a straight line that slashed across her face in a thin streak of pink. "I had assurances from you twelve weeks ago that those _miscreants _would be dealt with. There doesn't seem to be much improvement at all. In fact, crime is on the rise, is it not?"

Gordon couldn't deny that. Taking control of Gotham back was part of a war built upon the battered corpses of the battles Gordon was fighting—some that he won and others that were bitter losses. They were still up to their necks trying to prosecute over three hundred people for criminal incitement, accessory to murder, _actual _murder for some, as well as mass indictments for assault and every charge under the sun related to the riots that had lasted for nearly a week.

Then there the mess Homeland Security and the Department of Defense were investigating. He was still waiting to be briefed, but he _did _know that it had to do with the massive amounts of heroin and arms flooding in from overseas. It was supposed to be a joint operation—he had been assured as much—but Gordon knew better; no one wanted to trust the GCPD with much of anything. Keeping track of and going after the constantly revolving heads of the new gangs was another mess, and they were often on the wrong end of receiving active information, and acting on it when it was too late.

But Gordon didn't need to elaborate on that to Hill. She knew, didn't care, and wanted the results she'd been aiming for since she took over for Anthony Garcia. Smoothing this over was still in his best interest. He couldn't run his unit with so much interference. Not from his subordinates _and _one of the few people he had to answer to.

"Well, yes. As with any power vacuum, there can be periods of unrest with this many competing groups—"

"I want them out of my city, James. Either in prison jumpsuits or locked away in Arkham where they belong. Especially that _menace_. He still has an outstanding arrest warrant. Why he hasn't been caught yet is beyond me."

Gordon sat up straighter, not entirely expecting the force behind her words or the crack in the smile on her face. "Arianna—"

"Have you even made headway with those vile murders?" she asked, her fingers tapping against the armrest of her chair.

Gordon began to have déjà vu of a time many years ago when he was a street cop getting orders beaten into him from a superior. It wasn't a feeling he enjoyed.

"We're still working through the caseloads and leads. With the prosecution of the individuals from the Siege, we just don't have the manpower. We need more funding and support."

It was true, and it was the simplest solution to the GCPD's problems. Money and men who ran straight were what he needed. Hill disagreed.

"We've already talked about this, haven't we, James? If you can't work with the _ample _resources you have now, maybe I need to find a new leader who can give me—and the deserving citizens of Gotham—results."

The threat was clear, and it made Gordon freeze in place. He didn't blink, didn't twitch as to give anything away. But Hill knew, she had to, that her threat was a good one. Gordon might be the general leading the forces in the war he couldn't see the end of, but Hill would find others to do what she asked, what she was implying. And Gordon didn't want to leave any of that in the hands of someone else.

Even after eighteen months, the only person Gordon could trust was himself.

Or, so he thought.

"With all due respect, Mayor, but you won't find anyone better than Gordon."

Gordon started, almost forgetting himself that Bullock was still in the room. He was a large man, but he knew how to be quiet when he wanted to be. Hill seemed to notice him for the first time, appraising him and arching an eyebrow.

"Is that so?" she asked, sounding bored.

"Can't clean up a city overnight. Not if you wanna do it the right way," Bullock said. He didn't look at Gordon, and he was trying very hard not to look pleasantly surprised that someone was in his corner—especially since that person had appeared to be another barrier.

_He still could be._

"Hmm, yes. 'The _right _way'." Hill smiled, but it barely made her face shift, like it was made out of stiff clay—smooth but close to immovable. "Time is something I'm afraid you've squandered, James. I need _tangible _results, something to show the people that order is returning for a permanent stay in this _madhouse _of a city."

Gordon could hardly disagree with her—Gotham was still broken and afraid. They hadn't recovered entirely from what happened, and they wanted a strong show of how things were changing. But Gordon knew that trust would take a long time to recuperate.

Just like with almost everything else, Hill didn't agree.

"Yes, of course—"

"If you can't, then I'll find someone who will." Hill stood up, smoothing out her skirt as she kept the smile in place. She'd only been there for a few minutes, but Gordon could almost swear he felt more hairs on his head turning white. "Five weeks, James. That's all I can give you."

Hill didn't wait for a reply. Giving a posh wave with the smile still carved onto her face, she was gone as quickly as she had arrived. Gordon started to breathe again, taking off his glasses to wipe at his tired eyes.

_That's not enough time._

But, somehow, Gordon would have to pull off a miracle. And, in a place like Gotham City, those just didn't happen.

"She's a right piece of work, isn't she?" Bullock said from beside him, coming closer to the desk.

Gordon sighed in agreement, now pinching the bridge of his nose as the tension headache starting at the back of his neck intensified. He was getting too tired to stay at work, and that meant he would have to go home to face Barbara. "You didn't have to say that—no need to lie on my account."

Bullock scoffed. "Wasn't lying." Gordon's head snapped up, looking at the larger man with doubt. Bullock chuckled, looking everywhere around the office except at Gordon. "Might be more stubborn than a mule and blind to reason, but that's why you have schmucks like me."

Gordon laughed for the first time in what felt like a week. "Is that what I have you for?"

Bullock grinned. "Yeah, when your head's too far up your own ass, someone's gotta tell ya where to go—feed ya some sense."

Gordon laughed again, his eyes crinkling as it transformed his face. Bullock wasn't wrong, and as much as his brain wanted to sink into a place where he _could _joke about the current situation, the familiar weight and pressure on his shoulders increased. He felt like he was holding up the world, and he didn't know how long he'd last until he crumbled.

But, if Bullock was an ally, then maybe Gordon wouldn't have to face it all alone on this front. He silently prayed that he was right, just for once.

* * *

His footsteps were light as he jumped across the metal shipping containers, staying low and sticking to the shadows. Batman's Tumbler was parked on the outskirts of the shipping yard, too large to manoeuvre well while remaining undetected. He had already taken out four, tying them up and placing their unconscious bodies opposite a payphone for the police to pick them up when he radioed in after taking out the others.

He was glad for the distraction, for having a clear task to set his mind to that didn't revolve around the problems without simple solutions. The sight of the empty cans of beer and wine in Miriam's apartment flashed up, the look of hurt and anger and _hate _on her face searing through his mind. There wasn't any method that he could think of that would make what had broken between them better. He had no way of helping Miriam, only making it worse instead, and he tried to put aside the place of ache and hurt and pain in his chest that sat next to where the memories of his parents rested.

_Focus on what's in front of you. You have an objective._

Reminding himself of his mission—that's what he could hold onto. So, he did. Tenuous and shaky as it might be, that's what Batman did so that he could get through the night. Divorcing his feelings from his actions was what Ra's taught him, and it remained one of the few teachings Batman strived to embody.

Overlooking from his perch above, Batman saw eight more men below. All were carrying assault rifles—some of which were held with fingers by the triggers and others slung across their backs as they hauled large boxes out of a large red container twenty feet away. If Batman had to guess—and Batman never did that if he could help it, preferring to work with certainties instead—it was Black Mask who had his men out in force that night, and Batman needed to know why. The GCPD had a file on the happenings in the shipping yards, scant as it might be. Actually _doing _something about it was another matter. Corruption was still a problem bleeding through the lower ranks, worming its way back through to places Batman and Gordon still needed to uncover. And Batman knew better than anyone how busy Gordon was. He checked his sensor again.

_This is where the signal is coming from. But they don't seem to be aware of it. Or, at least, they don't seem to care._

It was a very particular signature, one that usually indicated the presence of large arms with tech that required satellite feeds to go online. After what happened a year and a half ago, Batman took no chances when it came to monitoring and checking every potential anomaly coming through Gotham. But, from what he could see, nothing was in the process of being operated.

_Strange._

Batman didn't need his comms to hear what the men were saying, and as he edged closer, he listened.

"Start loading it in with the rest. Boss says the crates at the back go to Burnley," said a taller man—likely an overseer—near the container. He held a clipboard, appearing to take thorough notes.

_Grabbing that will certainly be helpful._

"Why there? Ain't that gangland territory?" asked another man, shorter than the overseer, sniffling constantly and rubbing his nose on the sleeve of his plaid jacket.

"That's _exactly _why, dipshit."

Burnley was disputed territory between Black Mask and the rising threat that was Red Hood. If it was indeed arms that they had stored away in the back of the container, Batman had to make sure it never reached its destination. The man with the clipboard would be the first person Batman would take out, but assessing the situation in its entirety was still necessary.

"Fuckin' hell, man—just askin' a question," said the smaller man, picking up another box.

"Keep it to yourself then."

The smaller man gave a withering glare but kept moving on. Shaking his head, Batman heard him utter "asshat" before continuing down a long alley between the shipping containers, heading to a boat tied to the edge of the concrete pier. Batman tried not to think too hard about the last time he had been in a shipping yard, how that had ended.

_Focus on the objective and potential threats._

He snapped back to focus in time to see a line of six more men coming down to the open container. All of them were heavily armed, dressed in suits, and looking above as they kept their guns in a position where they would be ready to fire. Batman edged back, blending in with the dark.

_Need to be careful. Either they need to split up or…_

Or Batman could try out the electro-pulse grenade that Lucius had developed. That, coupled with a smokescreen, could give him the advantage to take them out without getting shot.

_Still risky._

"Hey—Bryan. What the hell are you doin' here?" asked the overseer to the man coming out ahead of the oncoming pack.

"Making sure the shipment goes out. Got company coming." This man was broad-shouldered and tall, hair styled in a crew cut.

"Fuckin' hell—who?" asked the smaller man, wiping his nose on his sleeve. A beat of silence passed and Batman didn't miss the look levelled at the man from everyone present. Some meaning must have dawned on him because his eyes went wide in understanding. "_Shit."_

"Yeah. _Him_. Get your fat ass in gear. Got a team going after him, best not to be around when shit gets messy."

Batman narrowed his eyes. He believed he knew who they were alluding to; Black Mask only had one serious rival as competition for the reigning seat as Gotham's kingpin. Both men would be in prison if he could help it, but he had more pressing concerns. But there was no guarantee as to who they meant, and he needed confirmation—he needed to end the fight before it even began.

Jumping down, quiet except for his cape disturbing the surface of a large puddle behind him and his feet grinding against the gravel, Batman stalked along the walls. One of the new arrivals, a lanky blond man showing his nervousness by his shaking hands and wild looks around corners and at vantage points above, wandered forward. For everywhere he was looking, he wasn't checking behind him.

His vigilance wasn't enough. Batman was behind him in seconds, a hand going over the man's mouth as he kicked out his legs. His hands tore at Batman's, reaching to grab onto anything and failing because of Batman's positioning behind him. Dropping him to the ground, he found the pressure points against the man's neck that would make him pass out and squeezed, waiting until he stopped pulling at his hands and kicking out. Checking his pulse before moving on, Batman stayed low, listening for the movements of the others and planning his route.

It didn't take him long to get to the shipping container; taking out the men he encountered along his way, he silenced them before they had the opportunity to shout or fired their weapons. Batman wasn't feeling tired—rather, his blood began to hum with that familiar rush, the life that made his mind sharp.

He was adjacent to the man with the clipboard, muscles tight with energy. The man stepped in front of the container, his back to Batman as he crept up behind. It was by chance that he looked over the man's shoulder and inside where the cargo they were guarding sat in their damp boxes. It took a moment to register the blinking light of red in the corner, the pulse against his belt that told him another signal was being picked up.

But, by then, it was already too late.

Only having enough time to duck and roll to the side, attempting to grab the man and just managing to knock him down, a deafening _boom! _and a shower of flaming shrapnel shot out as the shipping container—and whatever was left inside it—went up in flames. The singeing heat was intense and familiar, a callback to memories that brought more pain. His cape had barely come up in time to cover his face, and he was glad for the many puddles to roll in as he put out the small fires that ate their way through his suit.

_Get up. Find the one who set it off. _

Jumping to his feet, Batman saw that the man he managed to knock to the ground was badly burned, his clothes melding with his skin. More memories almost made him forget where he was—and he had to remind himself that the man on the ground wasn't Harvey Dent. Checking for a pulse and finding none, he looked up to see the large plume of smoke in the distance—down the alley where the men had been taking the boxes. The small commercial boat they had been loading—it was up in flames. From where he could see, there were men on the ground, their bodies illuminated by the flames that grew higher.

Shots rang out next, powerful and loud. They were met with bursts of rapid-fire, shouted orders and screams that meant people were dying.

Abandoning the dead man on the ground, shaking off the disequilibrium ringing in his ears that made his head spin from the blast, Batman ran. Sprinting and pulling himself up, he started running across the tops of the other containers still intact, heading for where the sound of gunfire intensified.

He passed over trails of blood below him on the filthy concrete, men bleeding out on the ground as he narrowed in on the source of the shots, going fast and varying his movements to lessen the chance of being hit himself. If he had to guess what kind of gun it was by sound alone, it was a high calibre one—probably a sniper rifle—that was winning out over the semi-automatics.

By the time he got to the end of the lines of containers to where the boat was, Batman only saw the dead bodies. His vision went red, his anger taking over for the briefest of moments before he shut it down. Someone had done this on purpose, set these men up to die.

_And almost killed me in the process._

It was a trap and Batman hadn't accounted for that possibility. He should have—the distractions in Bruce Wayne's life were impeding him again, putting him in danger: himself and everyone around him.

A flurry of movement caught his attention, made his focus zero in and away from the scene of carnage. Someone was running along the rooftop.

Batman didn't think.

There were only so many paths the man could take, and it looked like he was heading for the warehouse district across the yard. If he reached there before Batman intercepted him, then he was in for a long night. And he couldn't afford to have one more problem wreaking havoc in Gotham.

Shooting his grappling gun, Batman launched himself upward, clearing the edge of the rooftop and landing on his shoulder before rolling into a crouch. Batman saw all he needed to confirm who the man was and, by extension, his aims.

The man had a red hood.

It was pulled over his head, and the black and gray leather jacket blended in with the dark as he vaulted over exhaust vents, keeping Batman from examining him closely.

Batman made himself run faster.

_He's quick._

Gaining on him, Batman threw a series of batarangs as he cleared the obstacles in his path, jumping high and springing off the brick outcroppings. Almost like he had eyes on the back of his head, Red Hood dodged right and somersaulted off the edge of the roof.

_Not just fast—agile._

Sprinting, Batman propelled himself off the ledge, activating his cape to glide. Just when he thought he was going to tackle him to the ground, Red Hood made another feint to the left, jumping off another ledge, arms out to get his balance. The sound of glass breaking rang out in the still night air.

_He's not thinking about his next move; he's just _making _it._

Batman was playing catch up. He needed to be faster. _Better._

_This man's had training._

The thought was unsettling, and he regretted not focusing more on taking down Red Hood sooner.

_Prioritize. Act; don't think._

Recovering quickly, Batman followed after, diving off the edge and wrapping himself in his cape to slow the fall and protect his eyes from the glass.

He landed in a dark expanse among steel vats and pipes onto a catwalk. It shook and groaned but held his weight. Mildew and rust were the first things he smelled as his eyes adjusted, but something overtook that—something strong and familiar.

_Hydrochloric acid._

They had landed in a steelwork warehouse—an old one, out of regular use. But there were clearly remnants left behind that were never disposed of. Batman made his way forward after switching his cowl to night vision, the smell growing the further in he went. Everywhere he looked, he couldn't find his target.

_Faster. Can't let him get away._

He was listening for any sounds—boots crushing broken glass, shuffling against the dirt, metal creaking or even the sound of breathing. But Batman could hear nothing.

Passing over an open vat, the smell was pungent enough that it made Batman's eyes water. Rounding a corner, he heard what had been absent too late. Something heavy and hard smacked into the side of his head. It was powerful enough to knock him off his feet, make his sight go black, send a jolt of pain down his spine, and fall over the railing of the catwalk.

Batman barely managed to grab onto the platform, reeling from the blow and trying to pull himself up. A heavy boot crashed down on his fingers, digging in as Batman tried to get his sight to line up, to dispel the afterimages following his gaze with his damaged vision gear. Everything blurred together, keeping him from focusing on anything except shifting shadows. His damaged lenses turned everything into fazing static.

"You're getting slow."

The voice was artificial, deep and almost robotic. As he leaned into the light, Batman looked up into the 'face' of Red Hood, his eyes only marginally focusing on the bright crimson of the man's mask.

"Gonna have to do better than that. Was kinda hoping you'd put up a better fight."

Before he could hook a line into the metal, grab his grappling gun, Red Hood stomped on his hand and knocked away his fingers' tenuous grip. He fell, smacking into a pipe on the way down. Before he could fall into the open vat filled with what was likely acid, his stomach hit the lip of it, winding him and adding to the existing bruises along his ribs.

But he pushed through, grabbing whatever he could to keep from falling in even though he was certain at least one finger was fractured, if not outright broken. There was nowhere to go but down. He landed on his back against the cold concrete, straining to get to his feet and knowing already that Red Hood would be gone. The thought of giving chase despite the new injuries occurred to him, but then he remembered the dead men left behind.

He didn't want to, but Batman had to call it in. Just as one solution came, three new problems appeared, and he had to keep fighting alone to make sure the tide didn't become one that would swallow Gotham again. He would bounce back, but he knew there would come a day when he would be too tired to save Gotham from herself.

And he was beginning to see that day might come sooner than he'd planned for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I meant to get this out sooner, but some health problems and it being a holiday weekend here in Canada (Happy Turkey Day, by the way!) has kept me from writing as much as I'd like to. I know this chapter has a lot going on, but it's all build-up for important stuff that happens later! 
> 
> Thank you to everyone whose been so kind with their reviews and have been following along! I appreciate all of you, and I'll be back again in a couple of weeks ❤.
> 
> Also, another big thank you to [Khaosprinz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khaosprinz/pseuds/Khaosprinz) for her patience and help and to Boag for her advice!


	6. Old Habits

_This shouldn’t be so hard. _

But it is. 

I’m standing in the bathroom, the bottle of pills in my hand with the cap off. The original plan was to flush them, make them disappear forever and go back to what I’d done seven years ago—get rid of the temptations, the emotional crutches, and suffer ahead with other ways to distract myself. There’s the heroin case, the persistent problem of trying to make this place livable, dealing with Naomi’s _shit _order of going to therapy, and repairing what’s left of my family—even that hurts to think about sober. But I can do that without these. I can do it without drinking. 

_Then why have you been standing here for ten minutes? _

They helped me sleep for eight hours, made it so I had no dreams. Was it so wrong to want that, to escape for a little while? 

_You know where this leads. _

Just doing it once for the first time in so long has me thinking about doing it again. But it doesn’t have to be like that. I used them too much before—made it so that I was high all the time and able to forget… _everything. _Not just the things that hurt, but all of the things about myself that I knew would make it happen again. And it had _helped. _

_No, it didn’t. You just really wanted it to. _

The ability to lie to myself convincingly is a skill that never quite recovered. 

I might not have dreamed last night, but they’ll come back. It’s a pattern of waves—sometimes for weeks at a time, when I was tired from working almost sixty hours a week, they would just be _gone. _I’d be so drained that I’d drop into bed and sleep like a stone. All I wanted was to be able to go outside and feel alright, not like there were eyes permanently boring into me, peeling back the layers I hid in. I’d train and I’d fight and exhaust myself, give room for hope to grow. Those periods happened more often the less I thought about Gotham, when I pretended I never lived there at all. 

Then the dreams and all those memories would just… swallow me. 

Sometimes it would just be from smelling a cigarette and walking through the cloudy plume. Other times it was like I could see the faces of men I knew were dead imprinted on the living. Seeing them in stores, walking down the sidewalk, at work, and sometimes in my apartment—always when I least expected it, when my guard was down and I let that feeling of hope grow too big. I’d wake up screaming, covered in sweat and convinced someone was holding me down, crushing my throat. 

Those periods always lasted longer, and every time it got bad I’d try my best to find oblivion at the bottom of a bottle. And look where it’s gotten me. 

_You don’t want to be that, do you? Don’t live up to everything _he _said you were. _

My hand shakes. I _want _to dump it in—I _want _this decision to be easy. But it’s not—it’s not and it digs that permanent knife stuck in my heart a little deeper. 

_Prove _him _wrong. C’mon, Miri. _

The rattling vibration against the countertop almost makes me throw the pills everywhere by accident. Like an anxious cat seeing ghosts in every corner, I’ve been too jumpy since I’ve come back to Gotham. 

_And angrier. _

It’s my phone losing its mind, buzzing itself towards the edge. I take it as a sign to deal with the pills later. Twisting the cap back on, I check the ID before answering. 

“Kane.” It’s my new, standard greeting. Cold and impersonal enough for work. That’s what I mostly use this phone for, and I learned early on not to give people too much more to talk about—that it’s best to give them nothing at all. 

_“It’s David. Matsumoto assigned me as your Gotham contact.” _His voice breaks occasionally, like he’s still going through puberty even though he’s a thirty-one-year-old man. I know that because I hacked into his computer this morning and found his file in the DMV database. 

_Probably why he’s calling. _

I didn’t try particularly hard to hide my tracks. Best he knows early what kind of game he’d be stupid to start—which I would’ve thought he’d have learned that long before meeting me. 

_Maybe curiosity got the better of him. _

“Yeah, I know who this is.”

And, to be fair, he tried breaking into my laptop first. 

_Except his skills are mediocre. _

Or, at least, not good enough to get through the firewalls. First attempt was through a phishing email under a slightly altered version of his own address. It was insulting, really. And the subsequent attempts were worse than I would’ve expected from someone working with Homeland Security. 

_“We’re supposed to meet. You know where Murphy’s is?”_

There really isn’t any reason to be angry with the guy, he’s just doing his job—even if he’s bad at it. It’s _Naomi_ who I should be angry with, but I’m not talking to her and spite is something that’s dragged over from last night. 

Spite isn’t the only thing. A healthy dose of crushing guilt is mixed in there, too. 

“You’ll have to be specific. The Irish bar in Burnley or the café in the Fashion District?” 

He might sound like he’s going through puberty, but _I’m _the one who’s acting like a snotty teen. 

_“Fashion District,” _he says. His tone doesn’t change, and I’m hoping he either isn’t picking up on the aura of hostility or just doesn’t care. _“Meet me at 1445.”_

“Oh my—we’re not military. You can just say _2:45,” _I snap without really knowing why. 

_Jesus. Dial it down a notch. _

I wince at myself, walking out of the bathroom and leaving the bottle behind as I shut the door. Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and rub my forehead. Finding some sense of calm for the day will help—and it might take away the urge to punch somebody.

_Again… _

Jason’s face comes up; it’s harder than I want it to be to shove it back down beneath the surface. 

_You should call. Apologize for being… _

For being me. 

“Sorry. Had a long night.” Might as well start practicing now. It doesn’t excuse me acting like a brat, but I try to convince myself that this isn’t another thing I’ll keep making a habit out of. “You want me to bring anything?”

_“Bring the dossier and print-outs of any background you found. Be prepared for a full briefing and don’t be late.” _

I look at the clock on the microwave—that radio one is still unplugged somewhere—and sigh, the frustration coming back up. 

“It’s 2:15. Might take me time to get there.”

Either I need to find a taxi or take the bus. After what happened the last time I used it, how—I’m certain now—_he _and Zsasz were stalking me, I never want to use the SkyTrain system again. 

I’m in the process of trying to plan my route when David interrupts my thoughts. _“Didn’t you check your mailbox?” _he asks. 

_What the hell is he on about? _

“No… should I?” 

For the first time, David expresses something that sounds like emotion. He’s chuckling under his breath. _“Uh, yeah. The keys are inside.” _

I’m already grabbing my bag, shoving all the papers from the counter and my laptop inside before struggling to slide my sneakers on. Leaving the apartment and getting that godforsaken lock on the first try for once, I start taking the stairs two at a time. Naomi didn’t mention anything about keys beyond giving me the set to this place.

“Keys—what keys? To what?” 

_I think the mailboxes are by the lobby… _

Instead of answering my question, David chuckles again. _“See you at 1445, Kane.” _

He hangs up by the time I’m a flight down, but I don’t care. When I get to the lobby, I look along the long rows of silver mailboxes, searching for my apartment number. And, lo and behold, David was right. Amongst a heaping pile of old grocery store flyers and junk mail is a set of keys with a fob. 

“Nothing like a trial by fire, right?” I mutter to myself, shoving my hair behind my ears. Despite everything I know that’s waiting for me upstairs, all the problems I’m avoiding but will crush me later, I can’t help but smile. 

* * *

Alfred might have given up on teaching me how to drive, but I took it up again in Chicago. It was difficult—nearly wrecking the lease car I was using and scaring the instructor half to death, and more than a few tries to pass—but I did it. Naomi might not have screwed me as much as I thought she had. At least I won’t be beholden to anyone or anything to get around. The freedom of movement makes me take Gotham in a different light: streets lined with cars, the bright red of the taillights ahead glaring against the gray walls of brick, concrete and sky, all the pedestrians and their sea of technicoloured umbrellas. None of it brings the edge of fear, the stifling paranoia. _I _control where I go and when, and I only wish I knew I had it sooner. 

Still, my driving isn’t perfect. Bumper-to-bumper traffic is something I’m not well-suited to—my impatience nearly making me rear-end the car in front of me several times over. Navigating Gotham is different as a driver than a passenger, and even though it takes me time to figure out where I’m going, I still manage to get to Murphy's five minutes early. 

The café is spacious and homey—and totally doesn't match the name—with bohemian-style pillows and bright mandala tapestries hanging along the wood panelled walls, and white blocks of cursive words vaguely related to coffee and poor attempts at inspirational quotes. Another level goes just past the edge of the coffee bar, the wrought iron railing wrapped with fairy lights all the way down the circular staircase. I don’t see David on the first floor, but I guess he’s here somewhere. 

Ordering a tea and dumping an obscene amount of sugar in it, I head upstairs. I find him immediately in the furthest possible corner hunched over his laptop in thought. He would be hard to miss—he’s a big man, his frame wide and much too large for the too-small wooden bistro chairs and circular tables made up of mosaic tile. Even his hands look too big for his keyboard even though his laptop is the same size as mine. 

“David?” I ask more out of courtesy than out of actual uncertainty. He’s the spitting image of the photo Naomi sent. 

He barely looks up, flicking his eyes my way before returning to the screen. “Mmm.”

_Charming. _

I sit down, inching away from the table and the vicinity of his legs. He has to be at least six-foot-five. David still doesn’t say anything, preferring to type away and stay in his own world. The seconds pass by and impatience makes my knees bounce. 

“So…” I trail off, hoping for him to pick up on the cue and start. 

_He’s the one who called me over here. What was the point if he’s going to ignore me? _

We sit in silence for a while longer, my mouth opening twice to say something before promptly shutting. It’s not until I start sipping my tea that he finally looks away from his laptop. 

“What do you got?” he asks, face deadpan and bored. 

I’m annoyed that even in this he doesn’t seem to have his shit together, and that I have to answer to _him _of all people rather than Naomi just leaving it to me to handle the preliminary investigation. 

“Well, not much of anything. Not exactly a lot to go off here,” I say, pointing to the dossier I pull from my bag. The way I say it makes it sound like I actually _did _some background work. 

_Nothing like a good dose of bullshitting. Good job, Miri. _

David blinks slowly, his head tilting down as his eyebrow twitches. “You don’t watch the news, do you.”

_What the hell is that supposed to mean? _

Frowning, I mumble, “Not if I can help it.” 

That was something else I learned to do early. I had no—and still don’t have—any interest in catching a glimpse of what the media all along the east coast loves to fixate about. What I saw at the store a few days ago was proof enough that nothing's changed. The media has been less than generous in its coverage of the Siege. It was both a mercy to not go to court—to have my life, my mistakes, my… everything that happened torn apart for the public to feast on—but it was also a curse, because my silence meant that they could say whatever they wanted about me. And they had taken that liberty to the point of libel and slander. But I’ll never challenge them on it; then I’d have to prove they were lies and I couldn’t do that either. 

“Get started then,” he says. 

Lifting up his laptop with just two fingers, and the thing is by no means light by the look of it, he pulls something out from under it that I hadn’t noticed. It’s a newspaper. Thankfully, it’s got nothing to do with me—but the headline would’ve been good to know coming into this. 

_MASSIVE FIRE AT GOTHAM DOCKS_

_“Shit.” _

Gotham Docks—that’s where they think the heroin is being imported to. The Docks are big but not _that _big. If David’s pointing it out, that means they could be related. 

“Yeah. Shit,” he says sagely, nodding his head as I keep reading. 

_Firefighters worked well into the early morning to suppress the inferno that broke out after several oil drums caught fire. Spreading quickly, millions of dollars worth of product, imports, and property were destroyed or damaged as a result. The cause is still unknown, but police suspect no foul play as they continue to investigate… _

A fire that big doesn’t just happen. How would oil drums catch if there wasn’t anyone to light it or an obvious source isn’t present? Reading on, the article goes on to say that, despite no witness accounts to corroborate the claim, Batman’s presence could’ve factored into the blaze, but even that they don’t entirely explain. It goes on, pandering with hints to touch on any small possibility of what really happened without definitively stating anything. Seeing the journalist’s name, the reason why clicks in. 

_Jack Ryder. _

I can’t seem to get away from him. He hounded Bruce and me for months after Bruce got back, and he was there during _his _failed attempt at levelling Midtown. Jack got a front-row seat to what _he _did, got an idea of what that looked like, and then he—he— 

_Don’t think about him. Focus on the work. The man’s a worm and not worth the energy. _

Jack Ryder is a cockroach, and getting upset over it won’t do me any good. It still doesn’t take away the urge to go back to bed with a little help of—

_Stop it. No. You don’t need it. _

The clicking of David’s fingers against his keyboard snaps me out of it, and a sudden thought strikes me. 

“Hey, what are you doing?”

David stops typing but doesn’t look up. “What does it look like.”

_Yep. If there’s anyone I’m going to punch today, it’s going to be him. _

Gritting my teeth, I try to keep my voice even. “Unless you’re bouncing off your own hotspot, don’t you think it’s pretty unwise to connect to public wifi with your terminal? We don’t know who we’re dealing with, right?”

If he’s working on, well, _work_, then doing anything with his laptop here is beyond stupid. Totally something he should be thinking about but likely hasn’t. He scoffs, the roll of his eyes the most emotion I’ve seen from him since I sat down. 

“You think they know enough to be watching us? You’ve been here for, what, a week? And I'm nobody. Don’t even get a second glance.” 

His reasoning isn’t wrong, but we’re dealing with a resurging gang presence with hundreds of millions of dollars on the line for some sonofabitch in Gotham. _Gotham. _Didn’t we all learn that when the Mob backed one of the worst terror attacks in the city’s history, and all the violence that came after, that not accounting for every possibility with these people is a mistake? _Nothing _is beyond them, and the level of corruption would have only gotten worse with Harvey gone, not better.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean someone can’t go snooping through your shit.” It’s true—anyone could be monitoring this wifi network, could be looking at anything he’s doing right now. It just takes one wrong idiot to glance at something they shouldn’t for this entire investigation to tank. 

_Why isn’t he thinking of this himself? Surely he knows better—or does he really not know how things can be here? _

He must not be from Gotham. That’s the only explanation that makes sense. Any Gothamite would have a good dose of suspicion and distrust embedded in their bones. 

“You mean like you did?” he rejoins, still deadpan but a hint of accusation peaking through. 

_Yeah, and I’m not even sorry. _

“Don’t change the subject.” Going back to the paper, I see that they timed the fire as happening just after two in the morning. 

_That fits with the intel on the dossier. _

“Why are they lying in the paper?” I ask myself under my breath. 

“How do you know they’re lying?” David asks.

“Are you kidding?” I snap, more annoyed that he spoke—which isn’t anything to be angry at, really—than anything else. Forcing in a deep breath of air, I continue, “Everyone lies in Gotham. Don’t expect things like the paper and police to be honest just because they’re supposed to be in principle.” David blinks, sitting back a little further in his chair like the notion hadn’t occurred to him before. 

_He must _really _not be from here. _

“Do we have a copy of the police report?” I ask. 

He’s my ‘contact,’ meaning he’s the one with access to all the official records. He’s the one who’s part of the larger investigation and I’m just one of the cogs working in tandem, answering directly to Naomi. I’m supposed to do the technical work they’d need a warrant for, basically acting like their lapdog and providing leads—or, really, being whatever Naomi wants me to be. 

Without speaking, David hands me the report before ignoring what I said and going back to typing away on his laptop. 

_Idiot. _

Trying to not think _unkind _thoughts, I go over the report. Despite what the paper said, initial tests at the scene indicated that there _were _drugs present, but they never say just how much. And, just like the paper, they attribute the fire to a shipment of oil drums that seemed to have ‘spontaneously’ burst into flames. Even though I haven’t been there myself, something about all this doesn’t sit right. Cover-ups are common, but _what _are they covering up? 

_What about Gordon, I thought he was anti-corruption? _

Thinking of his face brings up a whole other host of problems. I’d consider going to ask him, but I know a random fire on the Gotham Docks isn’t what he’d want to talk about. But I’m not telling anyone what happened. Not ever. 

_Don’t focus on it. That’s the key, remember? _

Pulling out the small bundle of crime scene photos from inside, they all show scorch marks and burnt-out shells of discoloured metal. It’s all warped and split apart, shipping crates broken and lying scattered. They’re all close shots, focusing on small details with numbers and reference rulers along the border of the frame. During the other cases I worked on, there were always more photos than this. I shake out the envelope, thinking some might have slipped my notice, but it’s empty. None of the photos in my hands show the oil drums or do a wide shot of the entire scene. 

_Something isn’t right here. _

“Where are the rest of the photos? This can’t be it.” 

David looks up from his computer, eyes heavy and lazy, and his hand rises to stifle a large yawn. “That’s it. All they gave me when I got it two hours ago.”

_Maybe that’s something I should ask Naomi about. _

But I’m still pissed at her. Calling to ask her to look into something is the last thing I want to do, and I’m not going down to the police station unless I’m being dragged there. My mind wanders to other options. 

_Hacking into the GCPD database doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. _

“How much work have you done? Any ideas who this is? The suspect list isn’t exactly long.” 

“Yeah, definitely not that.” It’s all he offers, going silent and yawning again. 

My temper flares up, but so does the rest of my brain. The urge to hide goes away, falling back into the distance. All I focus on is what I have in front of me, what I know from being in this town for too damn long, and what I learned the hard way. 

“We can eliminate Shaddid and Donahay.” Saying my father’s name is painful, but I know he isn’t part of this—at least, not in a leading role. Being someone else’s lackey is something I wouldn’t put past him, but he was struggling before and there’s no way he turned that around on his own. I wonder briefly if his leg still hurts from what Batman did to it. “They’ve been around for a long time, but they always paid up with one of the bigger families when they were still around. They’re not sophisticated enough to pull off shipments like this with that much regularity _and _bribe journalists and cops for a coverup.”

David’s mouth opens and shuts twice before he finds his words. “How would you—”

“I just do. Live here long enough and you pick up on a few things,” I interrupt. It’s not totally wrong, and there’s no need to speak anything of lived experience. Thinking about all of this—as much as it’s stimulating, it’s also unbelievably frustrating. No matter what I do, I can’t seem to leave anything behind for long. “That just leaves Esposito, ‘Black Mask’, and ‘Red Hood’ if this is a conclusive list.” 

Just saying the words out loud is ridiculous. Batman seems to have set a new kind of precedent for the insane and unimaginable to happen. 

_What kind of names are those, anyway? Definitely no points for originality, Jesus. _

David seems to have recovered, adjusting in his seat as much as he can before giving me more of his attention. “Yeah, there’s not exactly a lot of people left. These are the only big guns, and two of ‘em are new.” He pauses and paws at the patches of facial hair under his jaw before continuing, “I’m from Kansas City. Never lived in a place quite like this.”

A mirthless laugh bursts out of me—too loud for the comment he made. I’d like to tell him _understatement of the goddamn year, _but there isn’t any point; I think he gets it already. 

“Nope. Gotham’s one of a kind,” I say, calming down enough to register the looks from the other patrons. The fits of giggles are something else that transferred over from that day—an unconscious itch that peaks up and I can’t control. It makes me think of— 

_No, no—stop. Don’t. Don’t think about it. _

The valium would help with this. It would take away the panic building in my throat, the voices and sounds of gunfire that block out everything else— 

_Stop. You don’t need them. Just get a fucking hold of yourself. _

I can think it all I want, it’s not taking any of it away. 

_Breathe. Just breathe. _

Inhaling, I hold the air in, making my chest go still. I keep it that way until it hurts and the blood rushes to my head, and then slowly release it. Closing my eyes, I repeat the cycle, focusing on it rather than the memories.

“What about this website—the FalseFaceMarket?” I ask eventually. Looking up, I find David staring at me, his expression blank but still focused on my face. Cheeks going hot, I look away. “Have you been able to find anything?”

He’s slow to respond, dropping his elbows from the table and leaning back in his chair. “Police acknowledge it exists but insist nothing can be done,” he says eventually. “Penetrating their servers would require an entire team just for that, which we don’t have right now, so I’ve been eyeing up the product lists.” 

He goes back to typing, and the urge to tell him to smarten the hell up again comes but it’s not worth repeating. If he blows this, I’ll make sure Naomi knows it wasn’t me. 

Stopping, David turns his laptop around, showing me a website that looks like a direct rip-off of the early 2000s version of _eBay_. Except, instead of lists of clothes, games, and random junk, the things on here include entire sections dedicated to different types of guns—everything from blueprints for printing your own 3D guns, assault rifles with their serial numbers filed off, mines, goddamn _RPGs—_and drugs. There’s enough variety on here for someone to equip a small militia group. 

_Maybe that’s the point. _

Just thinking about a repeat happening of before has me breaking out in a cold sweat. 

I keep diving deeper into the site, morbid curiosity taking over. Most of the drugs listed are substances I’ve never heard of, listed by the type of high you get and the region of production. I keep clicking, an overwhelming sense of sick wonder keeps me going through the tabs, until I find one I knew to expect but never wanted to confirm. 

There’s a specific section, glamourized with nude shots of men and women with dead eyes, that’s dedicated to buying and selling snuff films, child and torture porn—and one entire category is just for an online auction that sells _people. _

_“Jesus—” _

Slamming the lid of the laptop closed, I focus on breathing again. There’s nothing these sick bastards won’t commodify, apparently. It’s not anything I didn’t expect from shit you can find on the dark web—it’s not new to Gotham or any other place in the world, but it still twists my stomach. More memories come back up and I can’t shove them down anymore. I’m grateful when David clears his throat. 

“_Yeah_. There’s, ah… it’s a lot.”

_Another fucking understatement. _

“Good news is—if you wanna call it that—they haven’t added anything new in two weeks. Normally, there’s new shit to buy or full stock again every two or three days.”

I centre myself on that, the objective details—the facts I can use instead of the acts I don’t have the power to stop. 

_But shutting down a website doesn’t stop the fuckers providing the content. _

Misanthropy—something _he _taught me—bleeds in and I try to blink it away. “Then someone’s messing with the supply lines?” I ask, pushing my hair away from my face. David nods and I try to think—connecting the fire at the Docks with what we know about the group’s operations. “Is… Could this be part of a gang dispute? There’s still more than one group running around—if there’s a monopoly happening and someone else wants to cut in…”

David nods again. “No one wants to confirm it, doesn’t exactly boost Hill’s ratings, so it’s relegated to ghost stories online. That’s where I got most of my info on _him_,” he says, pointing at Red Hood’s name on the dossier. “Black Mask is another bag of beans. Got warrants to tap into some phone lines and I’ve been mining some emails from guys we know are still in the game.” 

He reaches down into the backpack at his feet and pulls out several stacks of paper. They’re all emails, with some lines highlighted and others with small annotations made in green pen. I start flipping through, reading his notes to get a general idea. I’m reminded of when I did something similar—back in that winter when I blackmailed Ivan. When everything went so wrong. David points back to the list on the dossier. 

“They all mention a Black Mask but none of his affiliations, no other names apart from the alias. What’s left of Old Gotham is splitting between him and the rival groups of Hood and Esposito.”

_Black Mask is the one in charge of the website then? Or, the one raking in the profits? _

“If they’re sabotaging one another, then that means…”

“They’re building up to something,” David finishes. 

For once, he doesn’t look so much like an idiot. 

“What do these… ghost stories say?” I ask, setting the emails aside. 

“Nothing good.” He seems to get excited, leaning his hulk in and talking low. “There's fanbase for all of these freaks—including ‘Bat Watchers,’ as they call themselves. Most focus on the Red Hood, say he’s more brutal than the others. Usually goes for… total elimination strategies. Has a fondness of guns and explosives.”

Black Mask is building an empire for himself, swallowing the smaller gangs into one, and Esposito would have the loyalties of what’s left of the Mob. Where does that leave Red Hood? 

“Do they say if he’s acting alone?” I ask. If I hadn’t lived through what I did, two years ago I would’ve dismissed something like this as outlandish, something from a TV plotline. But Gotham seems to be a place that fosters the impossible. 

“Not from the sounds of it. Some say he’s a one man army, but we know that’s shit. Others say he’s pulling in the straggling groups, recruiting others from the rival gangs.”

_That makes more sense. Doing all this by himself would be a feat—it would even make him comparable to— _

I realize for the first time since sitting down that Bruce might know something about all this. He’d be the one to have intel no one else would, making his own investigations outside the bureaucratic channels I’m stuck in. Maybe he could— 

_Don’t forget, Miri—you just screamed at him and threw a glass at his head less than twenty-four hours ago. You made it pretty clear where things stood, didn’t you? _

Wincing at my own temper, at my automatic reaction to lash out, I set aside the idea of going to Bruce for this. He was the one asking for _my _help, wasn’t he? About something unrelated, too. A series of murders—and I haven’t even bothered to read up on it. 

_Maybe… maybe you should. _

Thinking about Bruce is confusing, and it’s a thought that doesn’t go away. Swallowing, I say, “It’s a safe assumption to make that Red Hood doesn’t have the networks and capital to maintain this type of network and supply line?”

“Nah, not likely.”

“Then that just leaves Black Mask.”

_Well, at least you’ve accomplished something. Naomi should be happy with that. _

David sighs, adjusting again. “Looks like it.” 

I nod, thinking more out loud to myself than talking to him. “We know he’s paying cops, papers, and has a substantial amount of capital…” Despite Gotham’s overwhelming poverty levels, it’s home to too many goddamn millionaires. “How many people like that are left in Gotham?”

“The list is short,” he says, shrugging. 

Bruce would know most of them, too, on account of the absurd amount of parties he throws, people he reportedly dates. He’s kept himself busy constantly since I’ve been gone, almost like I never left at all. Sometimes, I couldn’t help but search his name, see what he was up to. What I read helped keep me angry—it made it easier to justify not talking to him. 

_You know most of what the papers said is a lie. _

But somewhere in there, parts of it have to be true, don’t they? 

_Maybe you just want them to be. Easier to keep being bitter that way, isn't it? _

Shaking my head, I say, “Then we start working it down until we find a name that sticks.”

David and I divide up the work—him focusing on the website and me on finding people who fit the profile. We both agree that there should be no exclusions; we’ll look into everyone until we can clear them. Once I have a shortlist of names and enough corroborating evidence for them to use, I give the rest to David and then it goes on to the investigative team shared between Homeland Security and the DOD. 

Someone shipping in arms of that level and drugs in such large amounts wasn’t something they’d let slip by. Corruption in this city bleeds into everything, but now it’s a question of exactly how far it goes. 

My head’s full with whirring thoughts, spinning ‘round and ‘round as I try to hold onto them. There’s a lot of work to be done and not much time to do it. Leaving the café and clutching my jacket close to keep out the spring chill, I dig through my bag to find the car keys when someone runs into me, knocking my shoulder and almost throwing me off balance. I right myself quickly and the blood drains from my face. 

"Well, look who it is." 

_God-fucking-damnit. Not now— _

It’s Jack Ryder. 

The panic comes first, but it’s quickly smothered by rage. He has a smarmy grin on his face, the frames of his glasses blending in with his thick eyebrows. Just like all those years ago at Bruce’s party, it still feels like he’s staring and trying to find something to laugh at later. 

_He’s already doing that. But on national fucking TV. _

My hands curl into fists and it takes everything in me not to clock him. Jack looks like he can tell; his smile widens. 

"Miriam Kane. I'd heard you were back, but then I couldn't imagine that anyone was quite that stupid." 

The cold sweat returns, and with it the paranoid certainty that the people walking past us on the street heard and are judging me, too—condemning me with a glance. I want to hide, I need to drink—bury this before it consumes me. And I hate Jack for it—I _hate _that I’m letting him do this to me. 

_I’m going to kill him. I will. _

He’s the one who made everything so much worse, made it so I couldn’t turn on a TV without being slapped in the face with lies. Me being some sort of—of accomplice, somehow being in on what _he _did and willingly participating. How it was _my fault _that Parker died—like I tortured him myself and stuck a dagger in his heart. That I should’ve been charged with accessory to murder for what happened to him and Zsasz. Replaying those videos _he _made and going through them frame by frame like a sports analyst. That I had _willingly _slept with— 

_Don’t. _Don’t_. _

My stomach turns, and my anger is so potent I can almost feel it manifesting behind me. He made sure I’d always be afraid to use my own name, to have any sort of identity outside of what happened. _He _might have carved his initial on my chest, but Jack did something just as bad: He gave the entire city the ammunition to make sure I relived those moments every day, that my entire existence would be defined by two weeks spent in the depths of hell. 

"Move," I growl. Hands shaking, jaw clenching tight, I hold myself back. My body’s vibrating, and I want to unleash that energy and slam his face into a wall. 

And the son of a bitch _chuckles. _

"Why? Not happy to see me?" he asks, stepping in my way when I try going around him to get into my car. He’s enjoying this and I’m losing the ability to control myself. 

"Last warning. _Move." _

Jack wags a finger at me, tutting and that _fucking _smirk growing. The bastard is probably thinking about the next topic of his show, creating a new angle to debase and humiliate me. "Ah, that's right. Still a feral little thing, aren't you?" 

"Shut your _fucking mouth." _I’m too angry to admonish myself, how I _do _sound rabid. 

"Come on, Miriam,” it’s like before—when _he _made my name sound like an insult, “why don't you give a comment for the _Gotham Times? _No one's heard from you since the Siege. Have you made plans to go pay a visit to Arkham, see your 'partner in crime'?" 

I freeze, heart stopping and my muscles twisting in on themselves. The scars burn again, searing deep into my skin until it transcends the pain I felt when I got them the first time. Jack stares at my chest, right where the ‘J’ is. He was there at Wayne Enterprises—he saw the cuts and bruises. He saw all of that and yet here he is. 

"Don't you think it would be good for Gotham to know that the little _terrorist _that got away is back?” He laughs, rolling back on his heels and shaking his head. “You know, nothing wrong with a few more minutes in the limelight. If you’d stayed, this would’ve been different. Could’ve probably even got yourself a book deal. But no, it’s not _my _fault you ran away—" 

_No. _

I’ve become wrath incarnate; no longer thinking, just acting. 

_"I'll show you feral."_

His hand is extended as he gestures, but I’m not hearing him anymore. Grabbing him by the wrist, I jerk him forward and spin, making him smack face-first into the passenger side of the car. Twisting his arm until his elbow’s facing up, I put pressure down on it. Enough that he knows I could break it or dislocate his shoulder. 

_Or both. _

Jack’s yelping in pain and sinks to his knees, sliding down the car, _but I don’t care. _During my time away, I wasn’t idle. I made sure to have all the tools I needed to deal some damage. I won’t be helpless anymore. 

_I won’t. _

"If you print any more of your _lies, _I won't just sue you for defamation," I twist again until he has to suppress a scream and it makes me _smile,_ "I'll make sure you never work in Gotham again. And maybe if you think I'm so _dangerous, _and such a _menace—_what did you call me the other night? 'Bonnie'?—you should know better than to _piss me off, _don't you think?" 

There are people walking by, but no one says anything, keeping their heads down and going on their way. Any other time, I would’ve criticized their apathy, but now all I have is a deep appreciation

Jack finally finds his voice; it’s several pitches higher and panicked, but I don’t ease up. "L-Let go—th-this is _assault—" _

Something in me snaps. I rip his arm up, his shoulder just shy of totally popping out of its socket.

"Oh, if it's happening to _you_ it's assault?” A burst of laughter shakes my torso, loud and ringing out across the street. Jack shakes, blubbering more threats as I lean in, bending his wrist back in the process. “Don't forget, Jack, I remember what you _didn't _do back then. The look on your face. You _like _watching people get hurt, don’t you? What great material—lying about a trauma victim and _making a profit _from it_. _I think it’s about time _you _got a taste of your own medicine, don’t you agree?"

"I-I will have you _charged_—" 

_Actually _dislocating his shoulder would have me arrested on the grounds for assault, but keeping him in the same position won’t do permanent damage. Even though that’s _exactly _what I want to do. 

_What are you doing? _

Sense seeps in and the anger ebbs. I can’t find my feet under me, the world tilting. 

_Isn’t that what _he _did to you? Twisted your arm as you screamed?_

The memory rocks me; bile rises in my throat. Letting go of his arm, I step away. Fists gone and hands shaking instead, once again reality hits me hard. But, just like always, the impulse to drive the barb in deeper doesn’t abate. 

"You're just as pathetic as I remember, Jack,” I say. He’s cradling his arm, gasping and struggling to get up with the car as support. Maybe he didn’t hate me before and was just looking to cash in, but he does now. “If the best you can do is slander, then you should consider finding another line of work." 

As Jack rights himself, something drops out of his jacket pocket. He’s too sore to move quick enough and I grab it first. It’s a dictation machine. And it’s turned on. 

_The fucker wanted a reaction out of you. _

A thought strikes me. Jack followed me here—or, knew where I would be. He got his recorder with the intention of making some new late-night special. The anger comes back just enough to efface any form of regret I might feel. Dropping the recorder to the ground, I smash it with my foot, hammering it until it’s just a mass of broken wires and plastic. 

Jack looks at me with horror—maybe even with a genuine feeling of fear—and I smile sweetly. "Hope you weren't needing that." His is mouth gaped open in shock and pain. My smile gets wide. Leaning over him, making him cower closer to the gutter, I’m pretty sure I look unhinged, and _I’m glad. _“You come _anywhere _near me again—talk about me, have me followed, _anything—_and I’ll do more than twist your arm and break your toy. _I’ll make you wish you’d never heard my name.” _

Standing up straight and resisting the urge to kick him in the balls, I start walking away. Finally finding his voice, he shakes with rage. "You absolute _bitch—" _

"Tell me something I don't know," I mutter, going around him to the driver’s side. Slamming the door closed, I take off without doing up my seatbelt, engine revving high as I floor it. I want to be as far away from here as possible. 

It’s not until I’m around the block, taking the corner at a speed that makes me slide in my seat, that I yell in frustration. Slamming my fist against the edge of the steering wheel, I have to hold back everything building—expanding in my chest until it feels like I’ll burst. Anger makes it hard to see, to focus on the road, my already questionable skills taking a hit as I stop paying attention to the other cars. 

Stifling silence muffles my hearing, pressing against my head until the pressure builds behind my eyes. The sounds of the outside world are gone, but it makes the voices that lick against my memory all the louder.

_"I think I've, ah, _figured _it out. They can see how _ugly _you are. _On the inside."

_No. Stop it. Don’t think about it—_stop. 

But it doesn’t stop. It gets louder. Horns blaring pierce through—not enough for me to care as I cut across lanes and haphazardly pull over and hyperventilate. I can’t get _his _voice out of my head—can’t stop the feeling of _his _hands on my chest—can’t shake the fear that’s crippling me. My chest constricts, air hitching in my chest. 

“Shut up!” 

I’m yelling at a ghost—a memory I can’t kill. 

Just like back then, _he _was right. 

"They_ can see it just as well as _I _can. It's what makes you _disposable _to them. They take _one good look_ at you and _oh! _that's it. _You. Mean. Nothing."

_“SHUT UP!” _I scream. 

I hate Jack. I hate _him. _I hate what they’ve done to me—what they’re _still _doing. I hate that I’m letting them. 

Banished back to whispering, the pressure’s still there but it feels less like it’s crushing me. Breathing hard, I struggle with new urges—ones not rooted in violence. 

_You still have the pills back in the apartment. Now you can go get more booze—you have a car. _

I want those things—I _need _them. And it makes me feel so _fucking _pathetic. 

It’s what made me hurt Jason—Bruce. It’s just another crutch in my life I don’t want to let go of. An ache, deep in my bones and arcing across my heart wants to find oblivion again. To forget everything. Kill what’s real and let me find that quiet place of peace where nothing hurts anymore—nothing feels like this. 

_Weak. Pathetic. _

Tears spring up but I don’t let them fall. Gritting my teeth, I close my eyes and growl. 

“No.”

I won’t take the easy way out. Not again. There are other things to drown myself in. Things that won’t kill me, won’t eat away at the people I have left. 

It takes time, but I make it back to the apartment. Ignoring the bathroom and what sits inside—what I know I won’t be able to resist if I stare at it—I go to the coffee table, where Bruce left that chip last night. Holding it in my hands, rolling it between my fingers, I try to make peace come. If I won’t drink, if I won’t kill what’s eating me alive inside, then I can at least bury it—have my brain focus on something else. 

_You don’t even have to tell Bruce. Nothing wrong with looking—you might find nothing at all. _

It’s a bunch of bullshit. My resolve still needs work. The heroin case won’t be enough, there needs to be more taking up space in my brain. I might regret it later, but I don’t think I have a choice anymore. 

_There’s always a choice. _

_“Sometimes, you just gotta _do _things—work with what's in front of ya." His _voice is back, but I swallow it down with willpower alone. And it hurts to admit that he wasn’t entirely wrong on that point. _“Just let it go_. Let it all go." 

With the voice come the sensations of the past, how they felt—the heat of hands on me. I shake and I try to keep the world still, keep it from falling out from under me. 

_Breathe. Just breathe. _

I’m choosing to try—try beyond what I’ve been doing. I’m choosing to be different, to prove them—_him_—wrong. I _can _be different. I _will be. _I’ll keep saying it until it’s true, even when it still feels like a lie. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Thank you everyone who's been following along and letting me know what you think! I hope you enjoy the chapter, and I'll be back in a couple of weeks. And, as always, thank you to [Khaosprinz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khaosprinz/pseuds/Khaosprinz) for all her help!


	7. Nine Lives

_This is probably really stupid. No, you _know_ it is. _

Another sigh, one of dozens in the last thirteen hours, is the only sound in the flat apart from the quiet hum of my laptop. Eyes feeling heavy and the world taking on a fuzzy gleam, I twist the small chip back and forth between my fingers. Who knew something so small could give me such a challenge. 

_But you did it, though. _

Oh, yes I did. Bruce couldn’t crack this and I’m guessing Lucius had it before he did, but I did it. Well, partly. 

_Still, that’s a win if I’ve ever heard one. _

Despite my exhaustion and the certainty that I could sleep soundly for the next twelve to fourteen hours, I smile. It’s not really happy, just… vindicated. Proving something to no one, but it’s still something. And I succeeded—kept my brain away from dangerous places. 

_You won’t always have things like this to distract yourself with. _

Ignoring that thought, I go back to my laptop, setting the chip back on its spot on my coffee table. Different cables and server components surround me like warm sentinels, my laptop hot on my lap despite the liquid cooling system. I’ve been asking a lot out of it, but it paid off. I have no idea what exactly I have here means, but it’s _something. _

While I was waiting for some software to do some of the heavy lifting for me, I looked into the case Bruce mentioned. The _Gotham Times _posted photos they certainly shouldn’t have, blocking out only parts of the victim’s face and not much else on their website, and it was enough to make my stomach hurt: people gouging out their own eyes, their skin morphed and burned, the obvious signs of mistreatment—Bruce was right. I _do _want to help, to make sure this doesn’t happen to someone else. 

_Too bad you’re both too stubborn for your own good. _

Much of the data was corrupted, the chip itself damaged where the silicon casing around it thinned. Bruce didn’t say it, but I think this was found _in _someone. Nothing in the media or police statements mention it, but that’s the only real reason for it. Thankfully, it wasn’t in… whoever it was, long. Its initial purpose—which the original program would’ve told me—was reduced down to a few lines of code that don’t make sense. Neither do the commands. 

**BELAY. CAPTIVATE. DESOLATE. DRACO. IMMOLATE. JEST. MARSHALL. OGRE. PROTOCOL. SUBJUGATE. VITIATE.**

After the words comes a list of numbers of one through ten. None of the words would suggest a sort of verbal command system—why tell something to “draco” or “jest”? The small fibres seem as if they were meant to connect to the spinal cord, and—what, control someone's nervous system? How the hell that would work is beyond me, but if the people are dying with these in them, then… 

_Then what? You're not a biotech engineer. Lucius would be better at that part than you. _

Another person I need to apologize to. Rubbing my forehead, trying to keep back the exhaustion, I stare at the lines of code again. It seems like there was more, but I can’t tell what they might’ve been. The words could be a reference to something outside the program the chip is using with meanings known to the people utilizing them—some sort of cypher, maybe—but with only this to go off of, it makes no damn sense. 

But there is one line I found in the code that survived: The signature of its maker, something deeply embedded in any piece of tech made. It’s like we can’t help ourselves—we want our names broadcasted to the world even if they don’t know what they’re looking at. It’s something I’m not immune from, and thankfully they aren’t either. 

**STAGG ENTERPRISES**

Second only to Wayne Enterprises when it comes to biomedical software, tech, and research, they’ve been on the cutting edge, coming out with new prosthetics and surgical tools that have accounted for most of their profits in the last decade. They supply hospitals and make pharmaceutical drugs, and if they made this, it’s unlikely they implanted it themselves. They just sold it to someone who did. 

_And how are you supposed to find that out? _

There are a few options available, all of them are borderline or straight-up illegal. The most expedient would be getting a master shipping manifest for this particular product number—SE-37-MEMS. How to do that comes with my least favourite part of hacking. 

“Why do you do this to yourself?” 

Of course, I don’t get an answer from anything in my empty apartment, and I can’t seem to muster my own, either. 

* * *

_"Good afternoon, STAGG Enterprises, Maddie speaking." _

_Showtime, isn’t it? _

Wincing at myself already, I adopt the New Jersey accent I practiced by watching three goddamn hours of _how-to’s _on _YouTube_ after managing to sleep for a while. "Oh, hello?" The nasal pitch seems over the top, and I hope she can’t tell it’s fake. Correcting the pitch slightly, I continue, "Jeez, you have _no _idea how happy I am that you're still open!" 

_"Do you have a specific inquiry—" _

First rule of a phishing call is making sure they don’t do all the talking—that they only listen and feel the pull of social convention. 

"I do, I do! I’m sorry, Maddie, I’m just blatherin'. I’m Wanda, by the way. So sorry, you must have a _lot_ going on—”

Strategic pauses are still necessary, giving an opportunity for the niceties to be filled in where required. And, almost every time, nobody disappoints. 

_“No, no, it’s fine. What do you need help with?” _

_The magic words. _

“Oh honey, I messed up _big time._ I work for FutureGen—y’know, the medical software company?—and we were supposed to get a shipment of those SE-37-MEMS thingies today, and when we didn’t I realized I _completely _messed up the purchase order.” For good measure, I add a break in my voice, a show of clearing my throat. “It’s been _so _busy here and because my boss has been away and he’s back tomorrow, _expecting _those to be here and it totally slipped—”

_“I’m sorry, but we don’t do last-minute deliveries this close to the end of the day.” _

_Goddamnit. _

Time to recalibrate. 

_Everyone feels sympathetic to new mothers, don’t they? _

“I get it—_totally _understand. It’s my own fault, really—ever since I had my son four months ago, it’s like I can’t keep anything in my brain.” It's a gamble as to whether she has any and can empathize, but it's hard to go wrong playing the part. “I know there’s _rules _and all that—I have so many here it’s a wonder how I keep them straight, haha.” 

_Moment of truth. _

If this doesn’t take, the alternatives will be more difficult; I’d need another day—or three—but I’ll get it done. A beat passes and I find myself starting to break out into a sweat. 

_“Yeah, I understand that all too well. Had the same problem when my daughter was born.” _

There’s a laugh in there, an exhale of understanding. 

_Jackpot. _

I try not to make my sigh of relief too loud. “I’m glad _someone _does! It’s the sleep deprivation, I swear.” The damn thing comes out with a cringe but still sounds like an excited squawk. I’m glad my face isn’t visible to ruin this. “Oh, I’m just thinkin’… if you can’t deliver, could _I _come pick it up in my van? I don’t think the order was very large, and you’d be a _total _lifesaver!”

Maddie chuckles, and I hear jostling on the other end of the line. _“Let me see what I can do. Just hold on for a second, Wanda.” _

Answering with an excited squeal, Maddie puts me on hold. Keeping my nerve and seeing this through to the end is supposed to be the easy part. If she wasn’t convinced by anything I said before this, then nothing I say now would do much to change it. This is the part of investigative work that I’m the worst at—trying to lie and be convincing. 

_“Wanda?” _

Sitting up straighter on the loveseat, I squeak, “Here!” 

She laughs a little again in a way that I hope means she thinks I’m endearing rather than annoying. _“FutureGen has a substantial account with us, so we can do this for you today. But it can’t be a regular thing, OK?” _she says, trying to sound professional again. 

“Oh, you’re _so _right, of course! It won’t happen again, promise.” My face probably matches the bubbly tone of my voice; the fact that this is going so well is a much-appreciated break. 

Maddie laughs on the other end of the line. _“Glad to hear it. Here’s the address,” _she says, giving me directions to some building in the warehouse district, just on the edge of the Burnley district. Scrambling to write it down on a stray receipt before I forget, she keeps speaking, _“Our building manager, Steven, should be there to meet you.”_

That’ll be the next step I need to prepare for, bullshitting my way through all that. I’ll need an excuse as to why I don’t have company credentials and make sure they don’t call FutureGen to follow up. The Kwans sold the company shortly after I left and moved to New York to be with Jun, so at least I don’t have to worry about dragging them into anything. Thinking about Soo-ah hurts—I haven't called her in months—and it takes away from the enthusiasm I'm already struggling to maintain. 

“You’re _amazing!_ Honestly, thank you _so _much.”

Chuckling under her breath, she says, _“Of course. Thank you for your continued patronage with STAGG Enterprises.” _

Saying the obligatory goodbye and keeping that sweet, nasal tone, the urge to sleep for another nine hours is overwhelming when I hang up. 

_Jesus Christ. _

If I never have to sound like I’m straight off some goddamn _Desperate Housewives _reality show ever again, it’ll be too fucking soon. Going back to sleep would just be wasting time and inviting the dreams to come back. I avoided them when I finally fell asleep after five in the morning, and the point of doing this was to mitigate the danger of having them again—at least, not having them for a little while longer. Holding up the receipt, something familiar about all of this nags at me. 

_That’s probably because you’re going to do something stupid. _

Well, that’s one logical way of explaining it. But staying here in the apartment without a goal is dangerous. The pills are still in the bathroom. A liquor store is only a few minute’s drive away. 

_You could call Jason back… _

He tried calling me earlier, and I let it go to voicemail. The notification is still on my phone, but I’m too much of a coward to check it. I don’t even know if I could do it sober, face up to a mistake that humiliating. 

_Is that what you’re going to do, avoid it? _

Shaking my head, I don’t think about it. I _have _something to do—something to keep everything else back. Changing into something that passes for office wear with leggings and a sweater dress—at some point I _will _have to get some variety in there—and trying to do something with the short, uneven curls that won’t calm down into a manageable style, I leave the apartment and head to the address Maddie gave me. 

_You’re definitely being stupid. _

But that doesn’t really matter right now. It’s a lead, something I might be able to rub into Bruce’s face later. Or an anonymous tip I can leave with Gordon’s unit. Either way, it’s better than suffocating in that apartment, drowning in my own inadequacies. 

It’s raining again, and I can only hope I don’t have to be outside for long. Fat drops hit the windshield, blurring the world as I go a bit too fast. It would be easy to lose track of what I’m doing, stare off and watch the patterns of water splitting apart and crawling up the glass. 

_Why are you really doing this, Miri? _

A horn blaring to my left tells me I _was _losing track, and I correct the car, getting back into my lane and pinching my leg hard. Apparently thinking and driving is too much to ask of my brain and I shake my head hard. 

_Focus. Don’t need to pancake yourself into another car. _Focus. 

Alternating between digging my nails into my leg and checking which direction I need to go in, I find the warehouse district after almost twenty-five minutes. Gotham seems so much more massive trying to navigate it by myself, and the closer I get the more I feel like maybe this is a _really_ bad idea. 

_That's because it is. _

The buildings are old, acid rain leaching the colour from the brick and rusting the metal roofs. Some of the signs are half torn down, brick walls covered completely in graffiti, and the cement pads in front of the warehouses are cracked and filled with piles of scrap. It’s worse the further I go, and I pass a few lots that have been levelled entirely. If it wasn’t for the instructions coming from my phone, I wouldn’t know where the hell I was going at all. 

It’s like this for almost another ten minutes, and I consider going back until I find the warehouse I’m looking for. There’s no sign to designate it as belonging to STAGG Enterprises, but it’s the first place I’ve driven by that has lights on. A delivery truck is parked down the lane and a small Mazda sits in front of it. The lot also looks like it’s been used more—all the entryways are clear and there’s a door half-cracked open, the light from within shining bright against the dark gray descending on the early evening sky. 

_Doesn’t look ominous at all, does it? _

Stopping across the street, my immediate instinct is to leave, give the information to Bruce, and let him do whatever it is he does best. But then that would mean going back, being left alone with my thoughts and agonizing about how to deal with all the problems that I just keep accumulating. 

_No—if you don’t want to keep fucking up, then you need to do _something_._

Swallowing the bad feeling in my throat, I dig around in my bag. I don’t always have it on my keyring, but I take it out now and grip it hard. It looks normal enough—like a thick pen from a distance, but when I press down a three-inch blade comes out. Carrying a gun isn’t something I want to do again unless I have to, even if Naomi _did _make me take a firearms training course, but I won’t be helpless either. Carrying a kubotan with a hidden blade inside seemed like the best middle ground. 

_"Just when you thought the fun was ending, eh?" _

A hand’s on my shoulder, touching my neck, ghosting along and scratching my skin. The smell of burned rubber and smoke fills my nose like it’s happening again. 

_But you know it’s not. _It’s not. 

That’s right—it’s raining outside. There’s no car wreck—Alfred isn’t here. My stomach still twists, sweat builds on the back of my neck. 

_"C'mon, love. Don't look so surprised.” _

“Stop it, Miri. It’s not happening. You're OK.” 

I need my voice to cover the ones I remember, the ones that aren’t real even if they feel like it. I hold the kubotan harder, breathing deep and clearing the thoughts away. 

_If anything looks out of the ordinary—or the bad feeling doesn’t go away, just get out of there. You’ll be fine. _

The reassurances don’t feel like quite enough, but my options are few. I know Alfred hasn’t changed his cell number—typing in a message, I set a timed schedule on it. If I don’t delete it in the next forty-five minutes, then Alfred will know where I am, at least. 

_You’re still not being smart. _

I decide that it doesn’t really matter. 

Getting out of the car, I pull up the collar of my jacket higher as I cross the road. I only passed two cars on the way here, and the streets are still deserted. The rain comes down hard, soaking my hair and making the water drip down past my jacket to drench my sweater and skin. Before going to the door I saw earlier, I look for other obvious entrances. Each one I find is either rusted shut or padlocked. The warehouse itself is massive, and the cold makes me shiver hard. As far as I can see, there’s only one way in and one way out. 

_Just get it over with, I guess. _

Doubling back, I see that the door and cars have stayed in the same place. I haven’t even heard any noises from inside—not that that says much, with the rain hitting the metal roofs all around me. Other memories—ones of Amusement Mile—creep in, overshadowing the present. Blinking them away, I peek through the door without totally opening it. All I see are wooden crates, a long, bare hallway leading to what looks like offices, and high metal shelves. Construction equipment and materials litter different corners, but there doesn't seem to be any obvious pattern to show when it might've been used last. 

_No sign of people, though. _

The bad feeling doesn’t go away, and I grip my kubotan harder. 

_Too late to go back now. _

No, it’s not, but I tell myself that anyway. 

“Here goes nothing.” 

_Famous last words. _

Pushing open the door, I listen for anything beyond the creaking and groaning of old metal grinding against its frame. 

“Hello? Steven?” I call out. My voice echoes, but I don’t hear anything else. Dropping the New Jersey accent is just smart—no way I’d be able to keep a straight face if anyone was actually _looking _at me when I tried talking. “I’m here to pick up a shipment for FutureGen?” 

Still nothing. 

A long drip of rainwater goes down the back of my jacket and I hurry inside, closing the door until it’s just how I found it. I hold onto my kubotan like I would a knife, blade facing down as I walk into the warehouse. To the left is an open expanse, filled with high shelves packed with crates and pallets covered in cellophane. But, when I look closer, there’s a layer of dust on the floor that’s largely undisturbed. Two or three sets of boot prints wander around and lead further in, but not enough to say it's been in regular use. Whatever this place is, it’s not a warehouse for STAGG Enterprises. 

“Shit.” 

_You’re a real goddamn idiot, aren’t you, Miri? _

Turning to leave before something happens and I can’t, I see something I should’ve checked for first right above the door. It’s a CCTV camera, and a small light blinking red shows it’s active. 

“Well, fuck.” 

Resisting the urge to give a mock salute and bolt, I consider my options. They’ve seen my face, and it’s not out of the question that they might have a camera on the street—they could’ve seen what kind of car I’m driving. It wouldn’t be hard to track me down, and that’s even if they don’t recognize me right away. 

_Then you need to take care of the camera. Naomi will have your hide if you’ve been compromised. _

That leaves the problem of _how _to deal with it. Either it’s being supplied to a feed offsite, or it could be on a server here first. If it’s the latter, I can deal with it now—maybe find out who the server belongs to. If it’s the former… 

_You’re already screwed. _

Only one way to find out. 

Taking a big breath of dusty air, I turn to face the long hallway. Memories of ‘Vincent’s House of Fun’—and its demented moniker—push down on my lungs, make my vision constrict. Knees shaking, I swallow them down. 

“Breathe,” I whisper to myself. “Just breathe.”

Pulling out a small flashlight from my bag, I shine it where the dim light doesn’t reach. All the doors along the hall—unlike those in Vincent’s—are open, allowing me to see rooms stacked with boxes, empty ones, old meeting spaces, a break area, and a defunct bathroom. The further I go, the worse the shaking gets—and the air gets thicker with must and visible particles of dust as it flitters past the light shining around the halls in unsteady gestures.

_You’re fine. You’re strong—just keep breathing. _

The familiar feelings of terror are smothering, but I keep the panic down. Parker isn’t here to save and there’s no boogeyman waiting for me—which is heartbreaking for the former and relieving for the latter—but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be cautious. Someone working at STAGG—or Maddie herself—gave me the wrong address, probably for a reason. 

_Well, if this was just to fuck with you, then some serious payback is in order. _

Just as I’m struck with the sudden, irrational urge to hum, I find something resembling what I’m looking for. There’s lots of dust in here, just like everywhere else, but there’s also a computer and what looks like a small server tower. Albeit, they’re both outdated by at least a decade. 

“Bingo.”

Checking the room to make sure there’s nothing here to surprise me, I start tapping keys, seeing if the computer will respond. Though everything else looks almost totally untouched, the keyboard and monitor are the only clean things in here.

_Probably a bad sign. _

“Work fast, then,” I mutter to myself. 

The computer boots up surprisingly quick, and even though the hardware is old, the OS isn’t—at least, not as old as I thought it’d be. 

“What the hell?” 

The tech’s too old to support something like this. Looking behind the monitor and into the computer tower, there’s updated hardware—meaning someone’s been maintaining this enough to be able to use it for… whatever it’s meant for. 

_All the more reason to access it. _

A dialogue screen asking for a password is the only thing that appears, and no matter what I type or try to engage to bring up the code behind it, nothing works. If I had my terminal, then I could maybe get somewhere, but it’s back at the apartment. 

_You don’t need to get into the system itself to find out something useful. _

But that means I'm screwed about the camera. 

_One problem at a time. _

Lifting up the keyboard, checking under the desk, by the server—looking for anything written down that could be the password—I see absolutely _nothing. _Just a couple of spiders and enough floating dirt to make me cough. 

“Wait…” 

I go back to the monitor, exiting out of the password prompt. On the screen is the default silhouette for where a profile picture would go and a username. 

**AA**

“AA?” I murmur. 

_What does that stand for? _

That is, if it’s an acronym at all and not just a lazy fill-in for 'administrator'. 

There’s a shift behind me. A quiet exhale. The unmistakable sounds of someone moving and trying to be silent. But it wasn’t enough—if I listen hard, I can hear their shoes brushing against the concrete. I don’t move—doing so now would give them the advantage; I can’t see where they are. Panic nearly makes me heave. 

_Breathe, keep your shoulders down. Think. _

Letting out a breath, I stare down at the monitor and see a reflected shape that both reaffirms my worst fears and gives me a fighting chance—there _is _someone behind me. Someone big. The kubotan is next to my hand, by the keyboard. Moving slowly, I grip it tight—waiting until they’re right behind me. My body vibrates so hard my teeth chatter—but I push on the top, releasing the three-inch blade. 

When his hand reaches for me, I spin, bringing it down hard into his shoulder. The man—someone tall and broad, hair covered in a baseball cap and face pock-marked—drops to a knee, yelling before he even has a chance of touching me. Ripping it out, I kick at the only knee holding him up hard enough that he collapses. He’s shouting for someone, but I barely hear him. 

Running, I sprint down where I came from—the only thing that matters is getting out. Fear and adrenaline narrow my focus, making the world turn on its side_. _

_Think, Miri—keep breathing. Run, but don’t be blind— _

This is what I did all that training for, to be able to make sure I wouldn’t be helpless. I know what the cost of that is, and I’m not letting it happen again. 

_Run—keep running—_

I’m almost clear of the hall when I’m pulled back so hard my jacket momentarily blocks my windpipe. Losing my footing and falling, I’m suspended just enough that I don’t smack my head against the floor. I swing the kubotan back, aiming to hit anything, and manage to sink it into his thigh.

_“Fucking hell!—”_

The hand lets go and I scramble forward, wheezing as I catch my breath, but I fall to my stomach when my leg's pulled out from under me. Bringing my elbow back, I connect with something—maybe a jaw—and twist to kick out at the man’s arms—only to see that this is a different one from before. 

_Shit! You need to get to the car— _

_“Get off!”_ I manage to kick him in the chest, but he grabs both of my legs, holding them together and taking my leverage. 

“Quit _wriggling around—” _he grunts as he tries to keep me still. 

Something I haven’t felt in a long time—not like this—rises. It’s energy I didn’t think I could summon, a complete suppression of the pain that would hold me back, a rush that kills paralyzation. This is do or die—and I won’t die here. 

The man pulls me closer, trying to get at my arms—and I sink the kubotan into his forearm, hard enough that it goes through to the hilt. I try to pull it away, but it’s stuck—catching on bone—and the man howls in pain. 

_Shit, shit, shit— _

Kicking him again but without the power I need, I’m forced to crawl out from under him as his weight almost pins my legs to the ground. He’s still screaming, trying to get the knife out of his arm, and I don’t have much time. 

_Find something, _anything— 

I’m surrounded by nothing useful—only old drywall from unfinished construction projects and pieces of dust-covered trash. 

_C’mon, c’mon— _

Half-hidden behind a loose board is a pipe, but it’s haphazardly attached to the wall. I reach for it just as the man pulls on my arm, twisting it back. 

“You _fucking cunt_, stop _moving—” _

Rolling and bringing my knee up, I manage to get him in the groin—it’s not a full-contact hit, but it’s enough to distract him. I bite into the hand closest to my face until I taste blood. He screams again and hits me in the face, trying to break my jaw’s hold; I bite harder and he shrieks. 

_“JESUS—” _

Releasing him and spitting out the blood and bits of skin between my teeth, I reach for the pipe again, grabbing it and pulling as hard as I can. It shakes but doesn’t come loose. I sob and try again—the energy is quickly leaving me; I need to finish this before they do. 

Something heavy lands on my back, crushing the air from my lungs. I gasp, but it drives out more from my chest, flattening it against the concrete. The more I move, the harder it presses. 

“Fucking hell, Mike—you can’t handle a bitch that’s a hundred-twenty pounds soaking wet?” 

The pressure increases until it feels like my eyes are bulging, my face going blue. I stop moving, my brain desperate for oxygen, and try to keep myself from groaning. Just when I feel the world spinning so fast it’s going dark, the pressure lifts and I suck in a greedy gulp of air. 

Managing to roll over, I see two men—the one I bit and the man wearing the hat. I’m choking and wheezing, but the boot goes back to my ribs. The one I bit pulls out the kubotan with a grunt; blood spills from the wound in small streams that drip down his fingers. 

“Says you," the other man growls, pointing to where I stabbed him in the shoulder. He presses harder when I try rising. "Fucking _shit, _man—we don’t get paid enough for this kind of fuckery. Boss didn’t say _anything_ about it being a chick."

They’re both staring down at me in a way that makes my skin crawl, and the pressure increases as they glare, quietly chuckling when I groan. 

“Bitch got the jump on me. It's fine, went into the muscle. Need fuckin' stitches, though.” He presses harder when he rolls his shoulder, wincing. I have to use all my strength to lift his foot to keep my ribs from cracking. 

_Can’t—can’t breathe— _

“Where's the zip ties?” 

“Think I dropped them back there. C’mon, might have time for a couple rounds before we—wait.” The capped man stops. Staring hard, he leans down, increasing the weight until every attempt at inhaling is agony. “I recognize her.” 

_Oh no—no, no, no—get them off or you’re going to die. Move, Miri— _

“The fuck you talkin’ about? When would _you _have seen someone like _that_,” he says, gesturing to me. “Doesn’t look like any whore I’ve seen.” 

Taking my hands away means the weight on my ribs is worse, but I’m not strong enough to lift him off me. Using what energy I have left, even as I feel myself get closer to blacking out—I reach for the pipe again. I keep looking at them as I tug, working as best I can as black spots dance across my eyes, and the terror steals what’s left of the air in me. 

“Nah, nah—not like that. I’ve seen her somewhere.”

The boot goes away again and expanding my chest hurts, but I need air. Leaning down, the man’s face is less than two feet from mine. He grabs my jaw and squeezes tight, twisting my face from side to side as he searches my features. 

_Work harder, c’mon— _

“Yeah, the news. I’ve seen this bitch on the news.” They’re staring too intently at my face to notice, so I pull a little harder. It’s close, I know it is. “She’s Joker’s squeeze—the cunt with the drones.” 

The pipe gives a little, and I keep working it back and forth. They’re smiling and something close to mania sets my skin on fire. 

“Joker?” the other man huffs, grin spreading. “Good thing he’s in Arkham then, eh? Don’t need that fucking clown around while we have some fun—” 

Rage floods my body in a tsunami. Ripping the pipe from the wall with one last jerk, it comes free and I bring it up and hit the capped man leaning over me in the temple. He falls to the side and the other man jumps back and yelps. But I’m not done. I get on top of the fallen man and wail on him—using the metal pipe like a hammer and hitting his head hard enough for a bright burst of red to blossom and arc as I swing. 

And I don’t stop. 

I don’t know what I’m screaming at—in fear, desperation, anger, or hatred—but time ceases to exist and I still don’t stop. _I can’t_. 

Arms go under mine and meet behind my neck, pressing down and putting me in a headlock, he drags me off the man. Struggling and screaming, I drop the pipe. He’s grunting with the effort of holding me, and I drive my heel into his foot. Yelling insults, he holds me harder and I squirm. 

_"Fuck!—"_

He brings us close to the wall, struggling to keep us upright. Bringing my feet up, I push against it and shove us backward. The man loses his balance, cursing as we both drop. His head smacks against the concrete and I ignore the pain shooting through me. 

_C'mon, c'mon, c'mon— _

Wheezing with the effort—my body close to giving out—I go for the pipe again when a loud shot nearly deafens me. I’m frozen, knees sending stabs of pain up my legs and heart hammering against my aching ribs. There’s shrieking, too much of it, that works it’s way past the ringing in my ears—but it’s not until my hand goes to my closed mouth that I realize it isn’t me.

_What the hell is happening? _

“I'm gettin' sick of saying this, but you dipshits don't seem to learn.”

My head snaps up, barely taking in the bleeding man I beat with the pipe on the ground to see the one standing in front of me. The handgun in his grip is all I need to scramble back. My hand lands in something wet and warm. I barely swallow a scream when I see it's a growing pool of blood. The man—the one I bit—has a hole where his kneecap should be, and he's shrieking in agony. Memories of the before come up and choke me, and I'm struggling to shove them down, keep them from transposing over reality. 

“This is _my _territory. Any business goes through me, and you piss stains aren’t on the list.” 

The man doesn't sound human—his voice is a deep, artificial growl that’s hidden by some sort of modifier. I'm staring at him but can barely take anything in, only that his face is covered and he's big—bigger than Bruce—and he's wearing a red hood. 

_Oh no, no—you're going to die, or worse— _

If even half of what David and the dossier said was true, I’m totally screwed. I’m going to die here. 

_Try to breathe—think of a way out of this. _

But there is no way out. I’m not the one with a gun—he could shoot me in the head and that would be it. The thought is both oddly calming and terrifying. 

_Did it to yourself, didn’t you?_

The tears don't come, and I don't scream either when Red Hood walks forward, gun still drawn and hanging loose in his grip. I brace myself, taking the pipe and pushing myself against the wall, waiting for him to do the same to me. 

But he walks right past like I’m not even here, instead looming over the men on the ground. The man he already shot is holding his leg, whimpering and shaking as he goes into shock. Red Hood ignores him to focus on the man I beat with the pipe. He’s half sitting up, pressing a hand against the gash at his temple that I made. I wince at the long line of red, how it trails down his face and soaks his neck. My stomach twists and I feel sick. 

“We—we’re followin’ orders, just doin’ what our boss—” 

“Did you miss the memo? I don’t give_ a fuck_ why you’re here. The rules were pretty clear—thought I made that point already,” Red Hood says, cutting the man off in a low snarl. “How about you? Got the same excuse?”

_What the hell have you stepped into, Miri? _

It takes a moment to realize he’s talking to me, his head cocked to the side as he plants a foot on the man’s chest, flattening him like I was just a few minutes ago. Air gets caught in my throat, choking me. 

“N-No—no, I was—” My heart’s beating too fast, hammering like it’s trying to escape. Taking a deep breath, I try to stay calm even as my hands shake. “I—I was given the wrong address. I didn’t know—”

Red Hood pulls his gun up to eye level, inspecting it like he’s found some flaw or stain he wants to examine up close. “That sounds an awful lot like an excuse to me.”

I struggle to open my mouth, to control the adrenaline that makes my body hum, and the man on the floor scoffs. 

“Yeah right, you lying _bitch_—”

“You say somethin'?” Red Hood interrupts, turning his head back to the man and pushing harder until he groans in pain. “Don’t think I was asking _you_, was I?” 

His voice is still low and deadly calm, but I keep hearing gunshots replay in my head—the screams of people dying, what bodies dropping to the ground sounds like. This is too similar, the fear too immediate. I can’t see his eyes, they’re covered by the mask on his face and the hood pulled down low, but I try to look where they should be. 

_Tell the truth. Or, as close to it as possible. Don’t lie. _

The man under Red Hood’s boot is wheezing, chest bending in the middle. I wince but try to keep back the terror. “I… I'm not sure what to tell you. I was just told to pick something up here—I… I don’t know what’s going on.” 

That _is _the truth, even if I’m not divulging the story behind all that. Red Hood stays static, considering me. 

“I _swear,_ I didn’t know.” It comes out as a whisper and I hate how goddamn _weak _I sound. 

_Please be enough, please— _

Holding my gaze for a minute longer, he steps off the capped man. The one who got shot is passed out on the floor, his leg drenched in red. Seeing that he can move now, the capped man tries to get upright and crawl, but Red Hood has other ideas. 

As soon as the man’s head’s just at knee level, Red Hood draws his arm back and pistol-whips him so hard a tooth flies out of his mouth. The sound of the metal connecting with bone makes me have a full-body flinch. Falling to the ground, he’s knocked out cold and small lines of blood spill from his mouth.

_Holy shit— _

“I believe you,” is all he says, stooping down to wipe the blood on his gun against the downed man’s shirt. Holstering it, he starts going through the men's pockets, avoiding stepping in the small pools of blood. 

“Y-You’re Red Hood, right?” I almost slap my hand over my mouth at the question, admonishing myself. It’s like I _want _to get shot. 

_Part of you probably does. _

Something akin to a chuckle emanates from his mask. “One and only,” he says, sweeping an arm out in a mock-bow. 

I’m trying to remember if the dossier said anything about civilian casualties, but I can’t even think straight—not with him in front of me. Aside from the titular hood that’s part of a sweater with the arms ripped off, he’s wearing a black long-sleeve tactical shirt underneath, dark gray cargo pants, and combat boots. There’s a long dagger strapped to his thigh, and handguns rest in holsters at his sides. His hands are gloved, and when I look closer I see thick studs that line up with his knuckles. 

“What, disappointed?” he asks, snapping my gaze up. He’s caught me staring, and my face flushes hot. “Hoping to get saved by the Bat first, Miriam?”

The blood drains from my face; my muscles twist in on themselves. 

_Oh no—if he knows… is that a good or bad thing? _

It takes a few times to get my mouth to work, and he straightens, shoving something in one of his many pants pockets. He stops right in front of me, staring down with half his face still hidden in shadow as I grip the pipe harder.

"H-How do you—"

"News. Should try watching it sometime." 

Straightening, my stubborn streak flares.

_You _really _want to get shot. _

Well, it would end more than a few problems if I did. 

"I wasn't _waiting _for anyone. I was… _handling _it."

He laughs again, but it doesn’t sound like he finds any of this funny. I lose my voice again try to keep my knees from knocking together, from breathing in the smell of rust, dirt, and fear too deeply. 

“Are you planning on smacking me with that thing?” he asks, gesturing to the pipe in my hands with a jerk of his head.

I look down at it, how I really couldn’t do much of anything, even if I wanted to. He’s twice my size, and I’m already exhausted, struggling to catch my breath. 

_Nothing much he could do that hasn’t been done to you already anyway. _

“Depends,” I say, keeping my chin up and willing the shaking to stop. The latter doesn’t work as well as I’d like. “Are you… are you going to shoot me?” 

Laughing, the sound unnatural and unsettling with the modifier, he leans over me until he almost entirely eclipses what’s left of the light. Holding the pipe in one hand, trying to think about exactly _how _I’d go about getting away when it feels like my body’s shutting down, Red Hood extends a hand, and I stare at it skeptically. 

“You didn’t answer the question,” I say quietly. 

My sense of calm despite all of this is surprising, honestly, and it’s not much of a serious question—just one I need an answer for. He didn’t kill the men on the ground, even if they are seriously wounded. 

_You need to call an ambulance. They might not be dead, but they will be soon. _

And he can still inflict a lot of damage without killing me, too. 

_Don’t think about that. _

“Do you want me to?”

“What kind of idiot says ‘yes’ to that?” I say and immediately regret, cringing and expecting to get hit—whether it’s his fist or gun won’t make much difference if he’s half as powerful as he looks. 

But Red Hood laughs for real this time—at least I think he is, it's hard to tell—and almost doubles over, clutching his side. My mouth falls open and he takes my hand, grip firm but not crushing, and pulls me up so fast I get a headrush. “You’d be surprised.”

Even though I’m on my feet, I’m still close to the wall, now trapped between it and him. Before I can blink, he’s taken the pipe out of my hand and throws it further down the hall, the loud clanging making me wince. He takes a half-step closer and I muffle a yelp, drawing back as far as I can. The panic comes back hard enough to wind me. 

“Whose blood is that?” he asks. 

It takes a moment to understand that he’s pointing at my face. Touching my lips and lower jaw, I feel the painful swelling on the left side where the man hit me and the dried blood from when I earned it biting him. I look away from the angry, indifferent mask covering his face and rub at the blood with my sleeve. 

"It's not mine," I say eventually, the taste of iron still on my tongue. "When he—they… I bit the—the one you shot." The lump in my throat grows as I stare at the man on the ground, how he's still bleeding. 

_You should do a tourniquet_. _He's going to bleed out. _

When I'm about to step around him, Red Hood grabs my arm. Holding it by the wrist with one hand, he pulls down my sleeve past my elbow with the other. I yelp and pull back, but his grip doesn't waver. A scream rises in my throat. 

"Cool your jets for a second," he says, twisting my arm around. 

It doesn't hurt, but I want to pull the sleeve back up, hide the thick scars that mark it—keep him from touching me. They’re all collateral damage my body had to pay after what it went through and, just like the ones on my chest, nothing I did made them go away. 

It's impossible not to feel how close he is, how his chest isn’t far from mine—how I can smell the leather, rain, and sweat coming from him. Debilitating panic makes me pull back hard, but I only succeed in falling against the wall and tugging him closer until he’s almost on top of me. I remember the kind of pain men half his size could inflict, and I don't want to find out what kind of damage he can do. 

"L-Let go of me—" My voice has lost all semblance of calm, but he doesn't move. He's not doing what the others were, but he could—and I wouldn't be able to do much of anything. Tears come up and I can't blink them away. "_P-Please, _let go—" 

_This is too much—too goddamn much— _

I'm remembering other things—being pinned to the wall and watching men bleed out on the floor and knives cutting into me and the sound of laughing—_him laughing_—the taunting and the guilt, the pain that's still tearing me apart, watching Parker die—

_I can’t—I can’t— _

The adrenaline is gone and it's all going to happen again. 

_It will it will it will— _

"Woah, there." 

My arm's released and I hold it close, struggling to breathe, and I’m mortified to hear myself begging incoherently. 

_Nothing's changed at all, has it? _

"I won't hurt you," he says. Carefully, he pushes away from me and, this time, he gives me space, not coming too close. I'm still breathing hard, my head going light; the wall I lean on is the only thing from keeping my legs from giving out. "People like you don't need to be afraid of me." 

Struggling to hold back sobs—the shock wearing off and leaving me crumbling—I look at his face, hoping I'll see something that will tell me he isn't lying. 

"You cut your arm. It's bleeding." 

Looking down, I see he's right. Dripping down to my fingers, my arm's coated in it, I just didn't feel the sting until he pointed it out. I nod, glad that he still doesn't move toward me. Pressing on the cut, I turn my attention back to the men on the ground. 

_You need to do something. _

Edging around Red Hood, hoping he means what he says, I drop down and start tugging the belt off the man who got shot, struggling to get it out from under his weight. 

Red Hood comes up beside me, watching as I succeed in freeing the belt and wrap it around the bleeding leg of the unconscious man, just above his shattered kneecap, and cinch it tight. Blood runs through my fingers from where it’s soaked through his jeans, and the smell of iron, urine, and sweat chokes me—but worse than that is the feeling of Red Hood staring at me, the pressure of it sending a shiver up my spine. 

"Hope you know that's pointless,” he says, his voice cold and rough. But he still doesn’t move to touch me—or really do anything else I would’ve expected. 

_Why isn't he doing any of that? _

I’m not as terrified of him, not as convinced that he’s in the same category of depraved that belongs to people like Zsasz and Ivan. It would be foolish to not see he's a predator through and through—I'm just not the prey he's after. I don’t even have much to convince me of that—David said he preferred ‘total elimination,’ didn’t he? 

_Then what is it that makes him different? _

The absence of total fear makes my tongue loose, less restrained and passive. I know it’s foolish—this man’s not a saint, he’s part of a brutal gang war where he’s killed God knows how many people—but the feeling of self-preservation in the form of compliance falls to the wayside. 

"Why?” I snap, standing and wiping the blood on my hands across my jeans. “If I stop the bleeding and they get to a hospital, they should—" 

"Not what I meant," he interrupts. 

He’s not talking about me—just the men on the ground. It's impossible to tell if his expression changed, but something in his energy certainly has—it's darker, and it makes the hairs on my arm stand up. 

"What… what did you mean then?" I ask. 

A different sort of fear finds me again. The fear of witnessing people die and doing nothing—being able to _do _nothing—no matter how deserving. He might not kill me, but that doesn’t mean murder isn’t on his agenda for the night. 

“Don’t be naïve.” Seeming to grow another few inches, he towers over me, coming closer in an attempt to make me back up. But my feet stay rooted, even when my hands shake again. “You should run along, Miriam. Get back in your car, slap a bandaid on that, and drop whatever dumbass idea it was that brought you here,” he says, motioning to my arm. 

Not stopping until his chest is almost touching mine, I have to look up into the shadow of his hood, at the fleeting glare of light that gives shape to his mask. Swallowing becomes difficult, so is the ability to stay where I am. I want to listen to him, to take his offer to run from this, but I can’t.

_I won’t. _

His muscles twitch and jerk, like he’s struggling to contain himself. I’m not sure what it’s for, why he's exercising restraint and why he won’t use that violence on me. 

“The Siege wasn’t enough—you didn’t learn to stay away from shit that’ll get you killed?” he asks, head tilting to the side as his voice distorts further, making it a guttural growl. The shaking spreads until every part of me is rocked with it, but I still don’t move. “Go home. Let this be your one fuck-up—fucking Christ knows you won’t get another—and be grateful it was _me _who saved your ass.” 

_Grateful? Grateful. _

If there’s one thing I won’t feel—it’s _gratitude _to violent men. Not anymore. Not when I have so much of that violence in me already, have so many permanent reminders of where _gratitude_ for being allowed to live when it shouldn't be their choice to begin with gets you. And _certainly_ not when I know where that violence will lead all of us. 

The shaking stops, my jaw sets and teeth grind together. Glaring, my words are firm. "Make me." 

There is no reason for it, none—it’s like when I asked _him _to put Zsasz out of his misery—but it doesn’t matter what the men on the ground did—what they tried to do. Leaving them to get shot is something I won’t be third-party to. I’m the only thing between him and them and I won’t move. He’d have to prove me wrong, that he doesn’t give a shit—that the act of being some sort of ‘protector’ is a guise. 

Paling when he starts to laugh—so totally cold and inhuman despite the heat coming from his body—my resolve wavers. The sound of it, totally distorted by the modifier, builds a heavy weight of dread in my chest. His fingers take one of my short curls between them, twisting it once before pushing it behind my ear. Thoughts of _him _doing the same almost makes me crumble. 

"You know what they were gonna do to you, right?"

_Breathe. Don’t panic. _

I tell that to myself over and over again, but his fingers pull at the collar of my sweater, adjusting it so it covers the bare skin of my shoulder. It was half pulled-off along with my jacket from the struggle, and he keeps straightening my clothes, careful not to let his hands linger anywhere for long. Air stutters in my chest and I try not to choke when he keeps talking, that low rumble echoing down the empty hall and surrounding me. 

"Drag you off, probably somewhere worse than here.” Something closer to indignation comes rather than fear. He might know my name, but he doesn’t know anything about me. “If they didn’t kill you and dump your body in the river first, they’d—" 

"Don't talk to me like I'm stupid." He freezes, caught off guard for a moment, and I hold onto the familiar rush of wrath. "How would it have been any different than what I've lived through already—what's left to surprise me, that I haven't seen?" I bite, cutting him off and glaring. 

How goddamn presumptuous is he—talking like I don’t know what nightmares men like him can dream up? There isn’t much of anything left for me to live through—I’ve already been to hell and have my soul tied to one of its devils; a _djinn _whose essence is fused with mine, no matter how much I don’t want it to be. _He _made sure of that with brutal effectiveness, and I slammed the last nail in my own coffin when I didn’t kill him. 

"You don't wanna know the answer to that," he says, but I don't want to hear him. 

"If you knew _half—_” I cut myself off. He doesn’t deserve to know—I don’t need to explain myself to him. My calm belies the simmering rage—at Red Hood, at _him_, at being stupid enough to come, and at Bruce for no other reason than I listened to him. “I'm not leaving so you can just _murder _them—" 

"You can and you will," he interrupts. 

It’s a warning, but I don’t care. At this point, I don’t know if I’m acting on a death wish or stubbornness. 

_Probably both. _

I don’t have to see his glower to feel it, and I keep levelling my own. "No." 

He laughs again, but all traces of humour have vanished. "Listen, darlin', just because I don't hurt people like you doesn't mean I let ‘em get in my way."

"What does _that _mean?" 

I sound more panicked than I mean to, finally backing up when he moves, nearly tripping on the men’s legs below me. If he won't listen, I need to come up with something—_anything_—to turn this around, get out without knowing someone died because of me again. I couldn't take it, my heart can't. 

“D-Didn’t you see the cameras? They'll—they _will _know you were here, the p-police will—”

“No, they won’t." He sounds smug now—completely certain. I can almost imagine the smile on his face behind the mask. "Don’t worry about it.” 

“What—”

His head tilted down and striding with purpose, I keep going backward until my spine smacks into the opposite wall. I don't even have time to look down for an exit, try to run again; he closes the distance between us, clamping a hand on my shoulder and spinning me around, pinching the muscles hard. 

"Enjoy the nap and get that cut checked out," he says in my ear. 

"W-Wait—_" _

There’s no time to react—there's only sharp pain as something hits the back of my neck. My knees buckle and I drop, the world smothering me like there’s a heavy quilt wrapped around my head. 

_"Sorry, su—"_

The sound fades away, and I only register the feeling of floating, of being against something warm, before getting the wish I always wanted—I don’t feel anything at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for reading and being so supportive, y'all are the best and I couldn't do this without you! A special shoutout to Minstorai for all their wonderful comments on almost every dang chapter in the series - I'm so lucky to have the best readers and supporters out there! 
> 
> Things are getting pretty crazy with school, but I'm still planning on having chapter 8 out in two weeks. And, just as a fun spoiler for y'all, we're finally gonna see Joker in the next chapter and see everything he's been up to. I hope you enjoy the chapter and look forward to the next! ❤


	8. Searching for Darkness with a Torch

“Explain.”

His voice was tight and restrained, and he could almost hear the man’s quivering on the other end of the line even if he knew that likely wasn’t the case. But Harper _did _sound terrified, as he should be, and that helped. Marginally. 

_“It—it’s just like I said, sir, we don’t know what the fuck happened—”_

“Language.”

Dr. Hugo Strange was furious. More than that, he was _outraged—_at his employees’ bumbling stupidity, the failure to deal with what should have been a simple problem in a quiet way, and that it had even _been _a problem in the first place. 

Too much had gone wrong in the last two months alone, and Strange’s patience had nearly reached its limit. 

_“S-Sorry,” _Harper said, caught off guard. The _degenerates _Strange was forced to employ had their uses, but he did not appreciate their uncouth nature._ “Right. Yeah. Uh, the broad went in, Mike and Sam were there, someone else approached and the camera died before we can see what he’s doing. And… and now…”_

And now the entire warehouse was burned to the ground. Only ash remained; no trace of what had happened and why. Strange was left to guess, and it was _not _an option he enjoyed entertaining. 

“I grasped the basic concept, you buffoon.” Just like he had to imagine Harper’s quivering, he also envisioned the flinches and wincing Harper would have done if Strange had deigned to see him in person. “Explain _how _you lost contact with them, _how _the camera stopped working, and _how _you managed to _fail _a simple task _with nothing to show for it.” _

He didn’t mean for it to come out in a snarl, his accent serving to enunciate the sneer on his face, but it did and he wished he could wring Harper’s neck. Grip tightening around the handset of his office phone as a makeshift surrogate, watching the seconds tick down on his office clock, his teeth ground together. If his men couldn’t explain this to him, then he couldn’t explain it to— 

_“Right, sir. Yeah—yeah, you got it, I’ll get back to you right away—”_

Strange hung up, handset landing home with an audible _clang. _Removing his glasses, he rubbed at his eyes. A sigh transformed into a growl. Running Arkham Asylum was growing more complicated rather than expedient, _simple, _as he had hoped. He would be sure to deal with Harper personally. And, if Mike and Sam were still alive, he would make them wish they weren’t. 

_This is what happens when employing amateurs, _he thought, lip curling. 

Up until this point, it had been too much of a risk to deploy the TYGER guards, but now he was beginning to see that if he wanted something done correctly, more austere measures would be required. Clearance would be necessary, but he believed he could make a convincing case. Depending on what had transpired in the thirty-five minutes from when the camera feed went dead and an anonymous caller informed the GCPD of the blaze in the warehouse district, everything he had been building in the last eighteen months could be for naught. 

_Swift steps must be taken_. 

He held the file in his hand tight, lost in thought as he stared at the looping video feed on his screen. Glaring at the entrance of Miriam Kane—an unexpected nuisance he had not anticipated when receiving word that someone had inquired about the SE-37-MEMS—he watched her walk down the hall to the small room at the end. He had to comfort himself with the knowledge that she was not in there long before being followed by Sam and running out. There was no sound, but he could imagine them as he watched the ensuing struggle, particularly when she bit Mike in a paroxysm of rage and nearly beat Sam’s head in with an old pipe. 

_Savage creature, _he thought. The look in her eye was wild and, despite the haircut, she was unmistakable. Constant reminders via the media-machine guaranteed that. When she was hitting Sam, there was no sense of restraint—only the blind need to unleash hurt before it could be focused on herself. 

Strange had seen that same look on someone else’s face just over a year ago, when he theorized how to access the portions of the mind that revealed the individual’s baser self, their _true _self. He had seen it in one patient, and now he was eager to see it in another. All of it would build to his final theory—the ultimate hypothesis that needed testing. 

But there were too many troublesome pawns plaguing the board, hindering the game. And one such pawn came in the hidden form of a broad silhouette with a red hood, visible only for a few milliseconds before the video went to a green screen with words jumping around in a spritely dance. His disappointment in being unable to see if Miriam had succeeded in bashing Sam’s head to a pulp was replaced with deep annoyance as he stared at the taunting words. 

**Boohoo. **   
**Riddle me this:**   
**Who stares at an impenetrable wall,**   
**hoping if they push hard enough it will fall,**   
**never realizing their efforts were worth nothing at all? **

“Is that meant to mean something?” a voice asked over Strange’s shoulder. Turning in his chair, he faced Jonathan Crane. This was a new habit—popping up unexpectedly. He had grown bold in the last year, and he was almost as comfortable in the Asylum as Strange was. 

That wasn’t the only thing that had grown bold in. 

_“Idiot._ The answer is ‘an idiot’,” Strange replied, turning back to the screen, face deadpan. “Very clever indeed.”

The audacity to break into _his _warehouse, burn it to the ground, likely steal everything of use—including the computer inside—and then _taunting _him about it, even inferring that _he _was the idiot, was enough to drive him close to blind rage. 

“Have we been compromised?” Jonathan asked, his voice coming close to Strange’s ear, a quiet murmur—as if there was someone present to overhear. 

“Not to my knowledge. Or, at the very least, not as of yet.” Letting out a long exhale, Strange pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“That could change quickly.” 

“Are you proposing a solution, Jonathan?” Strange asked, throwing his glasses on top of the large stack of papers on his desk. 

Jonathan chuckled, voice still quiet and breath fanning across the back of Strange’s neck. “No, no. I wouldn’t _dream _of suggesting anything untoward.”

Despite his anger, a corner of Strange’s mouth almost curled into a grin. “Liar.”

Now Jonathan was laughing, coming out from behind Strange’s chair and leaning on his desk. His sweater matched the gray clouds that plagued the sky—and his eyes. “Carmine had… simple solutions for these problems,” he said, shrugging. 

“He also had a vast criminal network and several layers of insulation in the form of expendable lowlifes. We do not have these luxuries.” Strange waved away Jonathan’s notion. To him, it was unfeasible. He might not be the most ethical of doctors, but he did not have the decades-long reach of connections that seeped into Gotham’s very roots. His options were few and quickly growing smaller. 

“True enough,” Jonathan conceded, looking off in thought. His fingers drummed next to Strange’s and pulled back the manilla folder he had just been holding. “That’s her file, isn’t it?” 

“Correct,” Strange said after breaking away from rubbing the stress headache forming at his temples. 

_What is he getting at? _Strange thought. 

Jonathan grinned, the smile turning into a small smirk as he pursed his lips and pulled the file out from under Strange’s hand. Holding it aloft, his posture shifted until it looked like he was ready to give a dramatic reading. 

“Work—from the federal _government, _no less—mandated therapy sessions. That could… present some _interesting _opportunities.” 

Jonathan looked from the file to Strange, his eyes showing a spark that Strange had grown to recognize. It meant that they were resonating on the same frequency—determining where a weak point lied and exactly how to prod it. It was a process they’d perfected together. At least, they had until they began to encounter substantial roadblocks on their path to enlightenment.

“‘Resistant to treatment. Hostile with all assigned therapists. Refuses medication. Consistently misses appointments. Reluctant to speak. Likely experiencing acute stress disorder; suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, depression; exhibiting self-destructive tendencies and high-risk behaviours’—well, _clearly _if she’s doing this sort of thing,” Jonathan said, motioning to the screen that was starting the loop again, “’and displays signs of self-harm. Recommendation for therapy twice a week in tandem with medication, with the possibility of institutionalization if symptoms worsen. Potential suicide risk.’” 

Jonathan closed the file, adjusted his glasses and gave Strange a knowing look. But, this time, he didn’t understand what Jonathan was getting at. 

“Yes, I have read her file quite extensively,” Strange eventually replied. 

“Who were you going to assign to her case? Before all of this, I mean.” 

Jonathan gestured to the screen, watching with detached interest as Miriam ripped the pipe out of the wall to bludgeon Sam. But Strange momentarily forgot what happened at the warehouse, attempting instead to determine what Jonathan's point was. This had happened before—Jonathan’s mind going down some twisted rabbit trail that Strange needed cajoling to follow. He had rarely been disappointed with where they had taken him before. 

“Are you suggesting that _I _take on her case? What purpose would that serve?” 

“Plenty.” Jonathan shoved himself away from the desk, walking around to Strange’s bookshelf, fingers caressing the spines of the books neatly lining it. “Surely you see an opportunity to… manipulate a fragile mind?”

Now Jonathan was just being _coy_. Strange wasn’t sure if he wanted to indulge Jonathan this time. The last instance he had, they’d lost their first subject. “That does not explain its _purpose.” _

Taking out the old journal—the one they had consulted so many times during their work together—Jonathan’s long fingers trailed down one of its pages, eyebrow rising. 

“You followed what happened in the aftermath of the Siege, yes? How could you not, with how it contributed to our patient population.” 

His finger stopped on the entry of June 4, 1923. Strange felt his blood start to hum against his will. 

“Killing her after all that would be too high profile—and treated with extreme suspicion—given her role in the affair. It's unlikely she discovered the SE-37-MEMS on her own—she hasn’t been back for long, I believe. Government watchdogs have no reason to take interest in Arkham of all places. That means _someone _gave her an idea of where to look. Her dying _would_ be expedient, but…” Jonathan trailed off and closed the journal, satisfied that it had elucidated the reaction he desired. _“Distraction _could prove more fruitful. Preying on what she’s already afraid of. Taking whatever grasp she thinks she’s found on her psyche and… _reopen _some old wounds.” 

Squinting, Strange picked up his glasses from the desk and eyed Jonathan carefully as he returned to his original position of leaning against the desk, his body close to Strange’s. Their fingers were close to touching, and he didn’t draw away. 

“That is a great deal of effort for one person,” he replied, taking his time to consider every infinitesimal reaction coming from Jonathan. There was a catch, he knew there was. Or, something Jonathan wasn’t telling him. 

_There always is. _

Jonathan might have been bolder, his research fruitful, and an indispensable asset to Strange’s work, but there was always something else. One small barrier that kept Strange from trusting him completely. 

“Yes, it is,” Jonathan conceded, inching closer until Strange could feel the heat of him coming through his sweater. “But it’s not just her relationship to 0801 that should be of interest. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten who she had the opportunity to meet on several occasions?”

Oh yes, Strange _did _remember. 

Any thoughts in his head disappeared. His slanted eyes narrowed further, but not in suspicion. The meaning was clear, and the humming accelerated until it was a pulsing thrum that throbbed in his ears. Jonathan’s obsession did not wane any less than Strange’s, and suddenly the efforts Jonathan had outlined made sense. 

One of the persistent lines of questions that had been levelled at the Joker regarded his encounters with Batman. What he knew, what he suspected, what their encounters were like. Strange had wanted every last detail. While Joker had remained tight-lipped, barely speaking a word despite the continued sessions of agony, fear toxin doses, and midazolam, there were bits of information that managed to slip through before they had to try activating the chip as a last recourse. 

Much of it had been anecdotal, perhaps details establishing where exactly his mind was oriented, what was important and what he valued. It became clear quickly that no such determination could be made, not one Strange or Jonathan could decipher, and that his thoughts were chaotic. One wrong word in their line of questioning would derail the entire process. But, Strange was beginning to see, they had gleaned enough information to benefit them after all. 

They knew that the Joker’s sick preoccupation with Miriam Kane went beyond idle fancy and that she was a frequent object of his hallucinations. They also knew what Joker thought of her relationships with others. How he had figured out something important: she knew _him. _

Miriam Kane knew who Batman was. 

And that was all Strange needed to be convinced. 

* * *

“Don’t have all night,” Red Hood said, looking at his nails and scraping out the dirt from underneath them with the tip of his kris dagger. 

His faceguard had been removed and only his domino mask remained, his hood still pulled over his head. They were in one of his safehouses in Chinatown, far away from the action happening in the warehouse district. The entire evening had not gone as planned, and he found himself angry in a way he couldn’t put into words. 

“Thought you were supposed to be quick at shit like this.” 

Eddie’s fingers stopped their flurry of movement on the keyboard, turning in his chair to shoot a venomous glare. “I _would _be if there were less idiotic comments delaying the process,” he snapped. 

Red Hood didn’t look at him, only raising the dagger higher, spinning it around and over his hand in a small dance. “You callin’ _me _an idiot?” He started throwing the knife in the air and catching it before it got too close to the ground. It was difficult not to smile when Eddie audibly swallowed. “I hope you know how unwise _that _would be.” 

Catching the blade between two fingers, he flicked his wrist and sent the dagger flying over Eddie’s head to sink into the wall, just above his code-filled monitor. Eddie shrieked and dropped down in his chair, covering his head. _Now _Red Hood was smiling. 

“Are you trying to _kill me?!” _Eddie yelled, popping up like one of those whack-a-moles at a kiddie carnival and glaring. 

If he wasn’t a pencil-necked, bespectacled, middle-aged man Red Hood might’ve felt bad. But Eddie was, so Red Hood didn’t. 

_Goddamn nerd could stand to act his age instead of like an angst-ridden preteen. _

“If I wanted you dead, I’d be a bit more creative,” he said, walking over to Eddie and leaning close before pulling the dagger out of the wall. “You’ve been at this for two fucking hours. I’ve met sloths faster than you.”

Eddie tried his best not to squeak when the dagger was ripped out and passed three inches from his face only for Red Hood to start spinning it again. 

“I don’t see you lining up to blackmail _them,” _Eddie said under his breath, sighing in relief when Red Hood backed away, returning to his position against the wall. But he flinched at seeing Red Hood’s frown. "It's a tight deadline, alright? If you'd been less liberal with the C4, I would've had more time.” The problem of working with him was that he didn’t know when to shut up; it was a point he liked proving repeatedly. “Don't be all pissy, it's not _my_ fault your _girlfriend_ got herself into trouble—" 

Red Hood spun Eddie's chair around so fast the smaller man almost slipped right out of it. Getting close to his face and glaring, he didn't need the full mask to look terrifying. Eddie started to shake. 

"You might wanna keep your thoughts to yourself, _pal." _

He moved closer, making Eddie press himself as far as he could into the chair until there were only a few inches between them. Red Hood wanted to make sure this got through loud and clear—the last thing he needed was Eddie spreading his delusions around to anyone else. Didn’t matter how near or far from the truth they were. 

"If you _really _don't wanna make me angry, you'll shut your _fucking _mouth. _Especially _when it comes to shit you don't know anything about, _Edward_." 

Something Jason Todd had learned how to pride himself early on, during the days he had wandered Gotham’s streets alone—fighting and stealing to stay alive, sometimes doing more than that—was how to make anything sound like a threat. Could be a name, one word emphasized a _particular _way, a pregnant pause, the right body language and how he positioned himself. But all of that knowledge was useless unless he knew how to follow through. 

And Jason Todd had picked that up quicker than anything else in his life. 

"This… _arrangement_ works well when both parties hold up their end of the bargain.” He almost wished he had the faceguard on with the modifier. Eddie _really _would’ve been pissing himself then. _"You _do yours and _I'll _do mine. And you'll keep both femurs intact and your jaw from being _permanently _dislocated." 

Shoving the chair back until it hit the wooden desk that sprawled out across the small room, Red Hood glared Eddie down, fists clenched at his side. Holding his hands out, Eddie looked afraid, but anger was still there, too. For once, he bottled it, stuttering out facetious apologies as he went back to the keyboard, typing faster than before. Rubbing his forehead, he resisted the urge to groan. 

_Why did shit have to get complicated? _

He didn’t know who he was kidding. Things got complicated the minute he talked to Miriam—_Adina—_in the store. That hadn’t been what he meant to do. The whole _stealth _approach hadn’t worked out well when he broke his own anonymity. Getting clocked in the face and walking her home hadn’t been on the agenda either, but he thought he could still make it work. 

_She serves a purpose, just like everything else. _

He had to keep repeating that to himself, even if it didn't feel true. Stay objective, get some intel, find out where her head was at, if she was someone he had to worry about, if she could help him—_that_ was what he had intended.

_And you didn’t come this far to shoot yourself in the foot. _

But maybe he already had. 

Red Hood gave his head a shake. There could only be room in his head for common sense and the reminders that _everything had to serve a purpose. _Miriam could help him to help them both—help everyone that psychotic clown ever fucked over and left to bleed out in the gutter. He knew she would understand the most. She’d want the Joker dead just as much as he did. Maybe even Batman, too. 

Miriam in person was so different from the videos he saw online. The first time he saw them play was in Kabul, in a hospital that was overcrowded and filled to the brim with children missing limbs—kids that his team could’ve put there just as much as the enemy. Next to friends who’d lost half their faces or their minds, Jason had to lie in helpless horror as his family’s death warrants were announced on live TV, when he had looked into the shell-shocked face of a girl whose pain mirrored his. Waiting for his skin, struggling to heal, to stitch itself back together after the doctors removed most of the shrapnel that sank deep on his left side, he could do nothing but lie in that bed and _watch. _

Special Forces might’ve been done with him after what happened in the desert, but Jason never thought about dying, only about doing what was necessary, zeroing in on the problems the world wouldn’t solve because they were _weak_. 

But that could change. _He _could make it change. 

He’d left what remained of his family in one hellhole only to trade it for another, but Jason wasn’t dumb enough to think he could fix the world. What he _could _do was make one small chunk filled with less human garbage—make it safe for the people who needed it. 

And then he made the mistake letting his ego get in the way and laid himself open up like a fucking Thanksgiving turkey by acting before thinking it through. But he saw a familiar hollow in her—something carved out with a knife. It was the same kind Jason struggled with—the nightmares and ghosts that never left and ate a hole in his chest. 

Jason—and, to a large extent, Red Hood—didn’t want anyone to feel like that; he didn’t want to be the one to make it worse. Everything he said that first night standing in the rain was sincere—_he cared_. He cared so damn much about _everything _that it turned into its own form of agony. Jason wished that he had the guile to lie, to entice her to meet and stick with the mission. 

It had been all mapped out in his head—how he’d recruit her for the cause. 

_You sure are a stupid motherfucker, aren’t you? _

But then he met her. 

_So fucking stupid. _

And then she kissed him. 

_Goddamn dumbass. _

And he let her. 

_Starting to run out of synonyms for ‘fucking imbecilic’. _

Kissing her back and then standing there like an asshole when he made her cry was the crowning achievement of his idiocy. He still wasn’t sure _how _it was his fault that it ended so badly, but he knew it was. 

_Fucking hell._

The urge to punch a wall—or Eddie’s face—was strong. All his planning could amount to nothing, and that wasn’t an outcome he was willing to accept. _He wouldn’t._

“Cracked the encryption,” Eddie called over his shoulder, still sounding sour. Red Hood barely heard him, only giving a low grunt in acknowledgement. 

He had planned a very different evening for himself. Most of it involved blowing shit up in _other _parts of town. It was mostly luck that he was just heading out to start his patrols—he had greasy pin kings to babysit—when he drove by her place just to see her whipping by in a car. The rest was the work of his gut, shoving aside the cold detachment drilled into him over his five years in the military. Trailing a good distance behind, he had been surprised to find her poking around that old warehouse. As far as he knew, it was a defunct storage building for _Sears _or some shit. Abandoned for at least a year, having anyone who wasn’t homeless wandering around was fishy on its own. 

The urge to leave it be had entered his mind; he'd be a liar if he didn't admit the shitty parts of his brain had gone there. Miriam was a big girl after all, the pragmatic voice in his head reasoned. He had even almost started driving past until his gut and his conscience, once again, took over. No rational thought could be found in his fucking head either when he shot that one fucker in the knee—and it wasn’t until he looked in her eyes that he kept himself from blowing out the bastard’s brains all over the cement floor. Reason had become an afterthought, and that was a problem in his line of work. 

_More than a problem: It’s goddamn _catastrophic. 

It wasn’t until she was out cold that he had surveyed her handiwork, and he realized that she might’ve been fine on her own. Sure, she’d have a nasty bruise on her cheek and a cut that needed stitches, but he wondered if she would’ve beaten the one man to death if the other hadn’t pulled her off. Just like when she clocked Jason in the store, he saw something he recognized: A switch being flipped—one she couldn’t control. Or simply chose not to. 

_Then why insist on being so fucking stubborn? For all she knew, I would’ve shot her in the face. Or worse. _

Of course, he _wouldn’t _have shot her—but she didn’t know that. She didn’t even respond to intimidation like anyone with their head screwed on straight would. That was another thing he wouldn’t have followed up on, but any other sonofabitch would’ve. He knew at one time he hadn't been so different; he had hurt people for less in the past, when he wasn’t the master of his rage. 

_Don’t know if that makes her admirable or a dumbass. _

Both—he decided it made her both. 

_The damn woman has a death wish. _

Not like he could say anything; he had one, too—his was just more productive, targeted at a specific goal. She was aiming wild. But self-annihilation ran deep in his blood, vitriol that fused with vengeance. It would burn him up one day, but he would be damned if it was before he was finished. He had to make sure nothing got in the way of that. _Nothing. _

_'How would it have been any different than what I've lived through already—what's left to surprise me, that I haven't seen?’_

He rubbed his forehead, trying to make the thoughts go away, to _focus. _

It didn’t work very well. 

_And just how do you think she’d react to finding out you were playing dumb the entire time? _

It was official: Jason Todd—not Red Hood—had completely screwed himself. ‘The King of Fools’ should’ve been his name. He wouldn’t instigate anything—he’d done enough. The likelihood that she’d ever speak to _Jason _ever again were slim, too. If she was wise, she’d wake up and go back to Chicago. Gotham was no place for her, because she was right—she had seen enough. 

_At least she didn’t recognize you. That’s something. _

But he also realized that he had made a mistake—he’d started something that he didn’t know how to name. He just knew it rolled downhill that first time she looked at him, so wary and her black curls dripping with rain, with green eyes that seemed to glow. 

_Yep. You’re a fucking idiot alright— _

“Are you even _listening _to me?” 

Red Hood looked up to meet the eyes of a _very _annoyed Eddie. His sardonic smirk was Eddie’s first answer, but he felt like driving the point home. “No. You were taking so damn long I was falling asleep.”

Now Eddie _really _looked like he wanted to kill him. He resisted the urge to laugh—that would be counter-productive. Even if Eddie wanted to, in a physical match he had no chance in hell against Red Hood. He’d trained long and hard enough to make that a fucking _guarantee. _If he was going to go toe-to-toe with the Bat, there could be no room for weakness. As if on cue, the large scars stretching across his left side contracted. 

“What’d you find?” he asked, coming up behind Eddie to stare at the monitor, ignoring the twinges of pain his side made. 

If there was one good thing that came out of this, it was that he recovered something he didn’t even know he should be looking for. One asset was still in the game, probably still passed out in her car—he’d have to check later to make sure she actually got back to her place—and a treasure trove full of information in the form of the computer and server tower. Having a nerd like Eddie under his thumb certainly had its benefits. 

Shifting in his seat, Eddie sighed in exasperation. “Like I was _trying _to tell you, it’s medical logs. Shipping manifests for your typical garden variety antipsychotics and tranquillizers—some pain meds, too. Another for lab and medical equipment. But that’s not the most interesting thing.” Despite his anger and indignation toward Red Hood, Eddie couldn’t help himself—he was getting excited. That big brain of his was working double-time. “See this here?” he asked. 

“Yeah, I have eyes. What about it?” 

Eddie sighed and Red Hood was pretty sure he heard 'simpleton' being uttered, but he decided to save slamming his head on the desk until _after _he finished telling him what was on the computer. “It’s a patient list of some kind. But they aren’t using names, just cataloguing them with numbers. You see what’s next to them?” 

Narrowing his eyes, Red Hood began to read.

**0937\. LITHIUM, QUETIAPINE, LURASIDONE. PHASE 3 ACHIEVED. PROTOCOL OGRE. ADVANCE.**  
**0801\. ZOLPIDEM, QUETIAPINE, HALOPERIDOL. PHASE 2 ACHIEVED. PROTOCOL JEST. WITHDRAWN.  
** **0342\. ASENAPINE, EFFEXOR. PHASE 1 FAILURE. TERMINATED.**

The list continued on that way, listing drug names with alternating results of “ACHIEVED” and “FAILURE” until it went past the first fifteen entries—then the ‘terminated’ and subsequent ‘failures’ made up the rest, adding up to almost thirty. 

Red Hood didn’t know why, but the list disturbed him. The data entry points indicated that the list had been updated periodically for over a year. A sinking feeling gripped his gut. 

_What the shit was Miriam looking into? _

“Fuck me sideways,” he murmured. “Who the fuck does this belong to? STAGG or—”

“No, no, no—STAGG would have been more difficult to infiltrate. Their cybersecurity tripled after what happened to Titan Industries.” Eddie wasn’t wrong about that. The paramilitary company was broken up, piecemeal style, after CEO Richard Ainsley was sent to federal prison. Wayne Enterprises, STAGG Enterprises, and the government ate up what was left and scrambled to make sure they wouldn’t be next. _“This _belongs to someone a little more… local.” 

_Why’s this fucker beating around the bush? _

“Spit it out,” Red Hood growled. He didn’t know what shit pile he just stepped in, but it couldn’t be good. 

Eddie rolled his eyes and he resisted the urge to slap the look off his face. “The things I tolerate,” he muttered. When Red Hood cracked his knuckles, he flinched back and started sputtering, “OK, OK—I get it, you’re _big _and _scary. _Jeez.”

Clicking on the web browser, Eddie brought up an article. One about new expansions funded by Mayor Arianna Hill for the new ‘Safe Streets’ initiative—where they were locking up anyone with even the slightest hint of crazy. Differentiating between the mentally ill and the criminal wasn’t a priority anymore, and Hill gave the funding to make it happen. She was smiling wide and waving in the photo with Commissioner Jim Gordon frowning next to her. The building behind them was unmistakable—its large, gothic structure acting as a dead giveaway. 

_Arkham Asylum. _

* * *

_Flick flick flicker_ went the lights above his head, phasing in and out so quickly that he could barely notice the change at all. But he did. There wasn’t much else he _could _do. 

_Flicker flick flicker_ they went again. 

If someone had told the Joker that the adage "dying of boredom" would stop being a cliché and instead become the _actual_ cause of his death, he would've laughed at them.

_Or skinned them alive. _

Pain was still something he was intimately familiar with in his daily routine—Brenda was good but not _that _good, he wasn’t immune to everything in the Asylum—but he wasn’t trapped in the dark anymore. Not completely, anyway. There was a small bit of natural light he could see in his tissue-box-sized excuse for a window for the first hour of dawn, and, if he was feeling perky_, _he could stand on the railing of his bed and see just over yonder and catch a glimpse of the _outside_. 

_Make me sound like a moping polar bear in a zoo. _

The Joker had lived in far worse places, but he always had the benefit of being able to breathe in Gotham’s dirty air, feel the brisk breeze after a long day of rain, look at the pristine world above be reflected down in a muddy pool of gutter water, watch as it twisted and mired with the residual oil rising from the asphalt to create a poisonous sheen, taste the grime and metal that hung in the atmosphere, coating his tongue. He couldn’t feel anything here. Nothing at all.

Roaming the grounds of the asylum, even escorted, wasn’t something he was allowed to do, either. Not after what he did the last time he had been able to walk around without a shock collar. 

There were no distractions—no stimuli. He couldn’t watch TV, read a newspaper, a _book—crime right there if I ever saw one—_and remained in the _Personal Safety Rooms_ despite being removed from the _aggressive _treatment plan Strange had enacted so thoroughly.

No, Joker spent eighteen hours a day in the _same _room, saw the _same _people, had the _same _meals, and was shackled to the _same goddamn routine _every _goddamn _day of every _goddamn _week without fail. Determining what day it was, even after the poison they’d been pumping him full of left his system, was still something he was unable to do. 

Just as they had been _so _diligent in their execution of the plan to drive him _catatonic_, they’d been equal to the task of driving him to give up and die in a new way: with _boredom. _

_Captain Ahab will have to try harder than that to crack _this _nut._

_“Ha_. Ha. _Ha._ Nut. _Nutty. _Drivin’ me _nutty._” 

The Joker started to laugh, going low and working into a crescendo, eyes tearing up as he stared into the fluorescence above his head. 

_Unhinged _was a kind term for what had happened to him. The control he coveted above all else eroded, whittled down as he watched from above while parts of him fell to the ground and were subsumed by a pool of black ichor that rose ever higher the more of himself he lost, creeping up until it reached his knees, sticky and thick.

_Flick flicker flick. _

Where he’d been trapped in darkness for so long, now he was awash in _light._

And he hated it. 

His fingers probed his cheeks, feeling the scars that split them—the thick, corded tissue, smooth and bumpy. He’d grip them, pull at the tight skin, memorize their dips and grooves, their jagged edges and rounded valleys with the pads of his fingers. He couldn’t remember the last time he saw his face in a reflection, was able to have that reaffirming moment where he could _see _who he was. Grasp that firm anchor that gave his unravelling a direction. 

But what did he have now? 

_I have enough. _

No, no he didn’t. 

Joker had lost his makeup—had it forcibly peeled from his skin—had his regalia stripped from him and reduced down to the uniform of society’s rejects, had no trace of green hair to be found. They had stripped away all that made what the Joker did—what he _was—_an art form. Left naked and weightless, he floated in a void that condensed his thoughts, trapped them in his head and gave no recourse—no outlet to give shape to the universe. He had lost his sun, and now the black was waiting to swallow him whole.

There were only three faces he saw with any regularity: Strange’s, a charlatan in the guise of his new doctor—_Spooner, which is _exactly _what I’m gonna use to scoop her goddamn eyes out of her head—_and Eugene Klein. He barely remembered the last two on a good day. They weren’t enough. Their faces meant nothing—serving to be part of the total erasure of his mind rather than providing the means of its preservation. 

But _Strange. _

_His_ face would be carved into the Joker’s mind until he erased him from the earth—the only mark of his existence would be his blood as it drained into the Gotham River, when he would feel it glide across his skin, wet and slick, as it permeated every crease, every fissure, until he was full again. Given back the lifeblood that had been stolen from him. 

Even thinking about that on a bad day wasn’t enough, either. 

He had told Batman once that the Mob was a group of fools for clinging to the past, grasping at the illusion of stability and stasis that _didn’t exist. _He had said that Batman had changed the name of the game—had irrevocably altered the course of history, of _life. _He had wanted Batman to embrace chaos and the unpredictable, he wanted to leave the old world behind and create a new one in his image. 

The Joker wanted to reclaim his aspirations, bring in new meaning and redefine _everything. _

But he was in Arkham, unable to do any of those things. And, for the first time in _years_, he found himself understanding that urge—to go back to what was natural, familiar. 

_And where would I be if I didn’t embrace the unknown? If I still clung to reason and _logic _in a world that has none?_

He realized that Arkham was draining that away from him, too. Every point of identity that mattered. Effacing him until there would be nothing left. 

The world wasn’t the same and neither was he. _That’s _what he needed to focus his energy on. 

The burning core at his centre was almost gone, just pumping enough life to keep his body shackled to his bed. He couldn’t feel the currents under him anymore, the thrum of the earth, how it sang when its thirst for blood and death was sated, when it was craving more. This new false, bright world was still and shapeless. No room for wandering even in his mind, and no chance to glimpse at the things that gave him meaning. 

The Joker felt empty. Hollow. An open, bottomless cavern through which he kept falling. 

_Vulnerability isn’t an _asset _in this line of work. _Weakness _is not an option. _

In the bleaching light of his small world, a bare snowglobe without the trinkets, snow, and little village people to terrorize, Miriam was disappearing, relegated to whispers on the periphery. 

He couldn’t tell anymore if that was what he wanted. 

No matter how much he tried, she didn’t appear in front of him when he was awake, didn’t murmur in his ear, didn’t share jokes just for him to understand, didn’t stay the one constant that had existed when all the others disappeared. He couldn’t feel her touch against his skin, that cool sensation that soothed his burning blood. 

Even the quiet whispers, all that he had left of her, were leaving, too. He’d felt this loss before, he knew—he just couldn’t remember _when. _

He didn’t think about killing her anymore. Well, not all the time. Just when the day went on too long and he could spark the smouldering embers in his chest back to life thinking of his hands around her neck. What it would feel like to stop the blood in her veins from flowing to her head, trapping the air in her pretty mouth and never letting it reach her lungs. Delighting as the light left her eyes. 

But then he would dream, unable to escape when the poison took over or his days-long stints of never-ending wakefulness ended and they snatched his mind in a vise. Dreams—_fleeting as they are_—were the only place he saw her, and he _hated _dreaming.

And, _oh,_ how he did think about hate. Hate so fucking hot and scorching that it ate away at him from the inside like a piece of paper with a lit match beneath it. Wearing through the thin, inutile skin until it singed its way to the edges, consuming everything until only a smudge of ash remained. It coiled in his stomach, wriggling and alive. His insides were already blackened and dead, and the heat would fan life back into what remained. 

The dreams would always come for him eventually, engulf his body in gentle, lulling swells, drowning him as it smothered the fire. 

_“Do you remember?” _she’d ask him, her voice soft and just out of reach. 

He would try his best to ignore her, he really did. 

It never worked. 

_“Stay,” _she’d whisper, breathing life into his chest. _“Stay with me.” _

Only then could he feel her fingers on his face, how they traced down his brows to touch his cheeks, feather and skate around his scars. 

He hated that, too. Hated how it made him feel. Hated how it made him want more.

Sometimes, when the lights were out and the familiar darkness returned, he couldn’t tell when reality would end and the dreams began. He slept then, bare chest erupting in goosebumps as he shivered and fingers rested on a small but thick line of scar tissue on his side, along a break between the bones of his ribs where the knife made of glass slipped in, his blanket laying discarded on the floor. 

The dream was especially vivid. And he did remember. 

He remembered what it was like to hold a blade in his hand, how it felt to cut into soft skin and watch as the lines of red, thick like newly formed dew, dripped down and pooled together, forming their own little deltas of dolour. 

_“I… I want you to do it.”_

He remembered her black hair, thick and velvet, running through his fingers, gripping it tight when he reached the scalp. 

_“I don’t want to be alone anymore.”_

He remembered what it felt like to have the waves of energy pulsing against his back as the world lit up in flame, the shards of debris and rubble peppering his hair, singeing his skin. 

_“I want you to do it.” _

He remembered the feeling of _vitality _that surged in him, gave him purpose and meaning, when those fists drove into his face—cracked his head against the wall, shattered mirrors—how the blood ran down in a baptism of eternal union. 

_“Don’t… don’t leave me.”_

He remembered what it was like on the ship when she was sleeping, how he’d lay down beside her, felt her breathing, felt her heat even as she shivered, how her body moulded to his, how he watched as her chest cracked open and her secrets spilled out. 

_“I want you.”_

He remembered that drive, that all-encompassing _desire_—to consume, to own, to control, to possess—and, with her, he always would. 

_“I need—”_

The alarm in his room sounded, blaring and ravaging his eardrums. He bolted upright, unsure of where he was, when he had slipped under. Once the initial jarring left, he shook his head, dispelling the remnants of the unwanted sleep and banishing the lingering tendrils of the dream that still clung to his subconscious. He knew that the dreams did not matter, not really. They were phases of his own moon, transitioning and sliding in and out of notice as he kept searching out his sun. 

With a groan and muffled shriek, Joker’s heavy cell door opened. A vaguely familiar face stood in the entryway, holding a tray and managing to look nervous, hopeful, and terrified all at once. Despite his vision being bleary, the exhaustion of remaining inactive for so long dragging him back down, he managed to recognize the small man in front of him. 

“Mor—morning,” he said, eyes landing on Joker’s still bare chest and quickly darting away. The scars on the Joker's face weren't the only ones that were hard to look at. Peering past the man, with his large glasses obscuring a babyface with dark slanted eyes, he saw the TYGER guards standing just outside, waiting for the Joker to give them an excuse. “It—it’s waffle day this morning, so—so I… brought you some.” 

The man trailed off when the Joker responded with an empty stare, making no move to put his shirt back on or shift in place. It didn’t take much to set the guards off anymore, not after the Joker had managed to get one of them in the eye with a plastic spoon—_see? It _can _be done—_two weeks prior. 

_To be fair, he started it. I think. _

By recognizing the face the Joker could drag up the man’s name. He was one of the _Big Three—_Eugene Klein. 

Eugene’s shoes shifted against the linoleum tile, still nervous after a month of intermittent check-ups on the Joker. He hadn’t even been remotely rude to the kid—_a feat unto itself—_as far as he could remember. He thought, and was fairly certain, that he had kept up friendly conversation with him, even re-remembering the name of some broad named Janis in a moment of clarity. Joker attributed it to the smell of waffles—one of the few meals served in the Asylum that didn’t make his stomach turn and actually had real fruit served with it. 

“What, you on lunch lady duty now?” Joker asked, still sitting on the edge of the bed with his feet hanging over the side, his toes cold and going pale.

“No, no—erm, I’m—I’m not really supposed to do this—this sort of thing, but…” Eugene trailed off, and the Joker rediscovered some energy. His knees bounced and he resisted the urge to buzz around the man like a honeybee. Those were some of his favourite words. It meant getting a surprise. In a half-whisper, he said, “They said you—you shouldn’t get any after what happened… happened last week.” He cut himself off, took a moment to clear his throat and glance nervously over his shoulder. “But you—you’re still not eating enough, so...”

It was like Eugene suddenly ran out of words, his face going red and eyes still adamantly glued to the floor. Joker smirked—the feeling unfamiliar and pulling at his scars in a way he liked. Scratching at his head, the curls now only going past his ears after being shorn once he’d been taken out of Arkham’s basement two months ago, he tried to find _friendly _in his bag of tricks that he used to have at his immediate disposal not so long ago. 

_“Now, _we’re talkin’,” he said, rubbing his hands together eagerly. The Joker never said ‘thank you’. Not to anyone. _Ever. _Not with sincerity, anyhow. But he showed Eugene his gratitude by continuing to leave him untouched, allowing him to pass in and out of his space without the fear that the Joker would enforce Rule Number Two. 

Eugene smiled a little, lopsided and quivering. The boy—that’s what he was, really, _a boy—_shouldn’t work in a place like Arkham. He wasn’t built for it. But Joker distantly noted his continued resilience despite his looking like he was about to faint becoming a constant and defining characteristic. 

Waiting—_like a good boy—_until Eugene backed up a good distance away, Joker grabbed the tray holding the waffles and started scarfing them down, willingly forgetting about the guards and Eugene as he focused on filling the fuel tank. Because Eugene was right, the Joker hardly ate much of anything—like his body was overriding his will. Most of the time it was out of spite. He had no reason to not do it, but going hungry wasn't an unfamiliar pang, either. 

“You may leave, Eugene.”

Joker stopped mid-bite, a large forkful of waffle, strawberries and kiwi half-shoved into his mouth, at the sound of Strange’s voice. He forced himself to finish it, chew slow and deliberate, and make eye contact with the man he despised more than anything. His cold skin grew hot as wrath and hate billowed the flames curling in him, crawling up his throat and licking at the roof of his mouth. 

“Are you—are you sure, sir?” Eugene stuttered. Joker wondered absently what Strange had done to make him so afraid, or if Eugene’s senses were perceptive enough to understand the threat subconsciously. Strange was at least an inch shorter than Eugene, but he seemed to loom over him. “I—I don’t mind—”

_“Leave us,” _Strange said. His face was neutral, but his voice was not. Eugene’s face went bright red, looking from the waffles to the Joker and hanging his head before leaving the room, legs shaking.

Eugene might not have an issue with showing his fear, but the Joker never would. 

_Never. _

“What’s this, Ahab? Come back for a, uh—another _tango?_ I’m _touched_, really,_” _he drawled, putting a hand over his heart, touching the mess of scars that carved his skin. This was the first time Strange had come to see him that _didn’t _involve Johnny-boy’s scare-juice. He was already imagining taking the tray his food rested on and using the edge to bludgeon Strange to death. 

“Do not be so glib.” Voice short and clipped, Strange entered the Joker’s animal pen to _gloat_. He felt his fingers twitch, electrified and humming with unleashed brutality. Violence was embedded in his DNA—_a blessing imparted on my_ soul—and he wanted to give Strange a taste of it. “Are you enjoying your current situation?” he asked. 

The Joker spat out a guffaw, cackling, high and then deep. Even as Strange’s frown deepened the lines in his cheeks, the Joker didn’t stop until small tears formed in the corners of his eyes. Wiping them away, the giggles still rocked him. 

“Ah, is that a _joke?” _he asked, incredulous. How that was even a serious question, and delivered in such a _serious _manner, was laughable. That’s what the Joker was doing as Strange stood there with his guards at his back. “Just in case no one _bothered _to, ah, tell ya—you should leave those to the _professionals.” _

Strange’s face stayed serious. “No, it is not,” he said, barely audible over the Joker's howls. 

Tongue swiping out to lick his lips and the manic giggling making his chest spasm, Joker raised an eyebrow. Leaning toward Strange, his tone stayed low and conspiratorial. “Well, _I mean_—I could _really _go for a tiki bar, maybe some those, ah… little coconuts with the _tiny_ umbrellas,” he giggled again, unable and unwilling to hold it back, his body tightening like a spring, “but I’d settle for _gouging your eyes.” _

That was all the warning he was willing to give. 

The Joker pounced—overtaken by bloodlust and the impulses of a starving wolf. He’d kill Strange—kill him, even if it was the last thing he did.

There was no thought—no reason. Only the desire, the _compulsion, _to watch Strange bleed out at his feet—to tear into the man, to feel his skin give beneath his fingers, to dig through muscle until he hit bone. 

It was like before, back when he thought escape was within his grasp, but now things were so… simple. 

It was only blood and pain and screams and _pleasure _and knives_knivesknivesknivesknives— _

At least, that’s all it was until every muscle in the Joker’s body seized, forming into twisted vines under his skin. He dropped to the floor, struggling against his body’s writhing as 1200 volts of electricity shot down from the base of his neck to the bottom of his spinal cord. They’d done something like this to him before—when he was strapped to one of those chairs in the basement, when they pumped him full of juice to see what his reaction would be. And, just like then, the Joker couldn’t make it stop. 

High pitched ringing blocked out all other sounds, his vision blurred and out of focus, but he could tell the light in the room was lessening. Blinking hard, he looked up into the face of Hugo Strange. Anger so scorching it caused him to nearly bite through his own tongue, the sweet tang of iron coating his tastebuds and bringing him back to that state of ferocity—demented animalism that gave him the need, the _drive _to sink his teeth into Strange’s throat. But, no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t move from his position on the cold floor. 

“Pity we could not work to tame that _beast _in you,” Strange said, cocking his head to the side and taking in the Joker like he was a failed science experiment, still so cool and smug and_ in control._ Just like he always had since that first night in the Asylum. The Joker wanted to watch him choke and drown in his own blood. “You have become rather predictable, haven’t you? Truly hopeless. Barely a man and driven by such _base _impulses. How does it feel to have lost control of even that?” 

The only way Joker could answer him was with growls that boiled in his chest, churning and burning and guttural. He knew, distantly, that he looked wild. Feral. Rabid. Untameable and unreachable. 

He really had become a wolf. 

Strange just kept staring down, finger resting over some kind of button in his hand. He sighed and dropped into a crouch, getting close to the Joker's face, but stayed just out of reach of his teeth. 

“Tell me, 0801, how would you like a new treatment plan?”

The Joker managed to grab Strange's tie and nearly rose high enough to take a bite out of his neck only to feel that electricity rip through his body again, making him snarl and groan as it ripped the air out from his chest. Strange's look of calm never went away. 

“Oh, no, no—it will not be as the previous one was. Do not fret about that.” 

_And I thought _I _was the deceitful one. _

The Joker bared his teeth in a poor guise of a smile. Now _Strange_ was grinning and, for the life of him, he couldn't figure out _why. _

“You have not heard much about the happenings beyond these walls, have you?” 

_Oh, of course I have. What, with the total abundance of hours on end of blank _nothing_, my super-sonic hearing's just improved _marvellously. 

He really wished his jaw would unclench so he could say the words aloud. But he couldn't, and so he had to keep his rejoinders to himself. 

Strange's smile grew until it was his own demonstration of baring his teeth. 

“What if I told you that… a _certain_ individual had returned to Gotham, that she might very well be coming by soon?”

Jaw going slack, the Joker could finally talk, and he was mollified that nothing he wanted to say came out. 

“Wh-What?”

Strange rose to his feet, towering over the Joker's position on the floor, his hands together in the picture of a _good, helpful _doctor. 

“It is true. She will be coming to Arkham for treatment—strictly as an outpatient,” Strange was quick to add at the look of panicked ebullition on the Joker’s face. “Do you not think it is the time for _healing_, 0801?” 

His brain had become a mass of white noise. What was Strange trying to do? Was he talking about who Joker thought he was? Did he even _want _that? Why would— 

_No no no no no NO NO NO NO. _

No, this was another trick. A ploy to get something else out of him. Something he couldn't give. And they were gonna use _her _to do it. She'd ruin everything—ruin _him—again_—and he wasn't sure anymore if he could make it stop. If he could stay resolute. 

_Can't_ _happen. Can't can't can't CAN'T. _

_“Shut. Your. Mouth,” _the Joker snarled. 

He wished he had given no reaction at all for how Strange's face took on that _maddening _expression of blithe _condescension. _

The Joker would pull out his teeth. He would. And then he'd shove them down Strange's throat and _feed them _to him like they were fucking _T__ic Tacs_.

“Do not be so hostile, 0801," Strange tutted, wagging a finger at him. "She will be coming here regardless. Whether _you _see her is another matter—”

The Joker managed to rise to a sitting position, trying not to pant and failing. He felt so close to inhuman in that moment—no. He _was _inhuman, beyond the animal. 

“If you don’t, ah… _Shut. Your. Fucking. Mouth, _I will kill you. _Slowly,” _he interrupted, his tone measured but no less menacing. Something in his face changed, enough to make Strange take half a step back. "You won't _like_ what I'll do. Ah, you've seen my _work_ before, haven't you, _Doctor?" _ The Joker managed to rise to his feet, but he kept the distance between them. He wouldn't attack Strange again. 

_Not yet, anyway. _

Strange's Adam's apple gave a minute bob, and the Joker smiled benignly. 

_"Yeah. _You have. Consider tha-_t _as an… _appetizer. _A _warm-up _for the main event." 

Slowly, his tongue lapped along his bottom lip, touching the corners of his mouth and his eyes wandered up. He started laughing again, the force of them battering his ribcage. 

He imagined taking Strange's hands and shoving them into the heart of a burning fire, holding them there until they were nothing but molten stumps, the muscles and tendons withering as he watched his bones fall and crack. 

He imagined prying out Strange's eyes, careful to be sure to keep the optic nerves intact, and shoving them _down his throat. _

It was agony for his body to feel so much after getting _zapped _twice in a row, but the Joker revelled in it. Ironically, Miriam's prodding had _helped. _

He was remembering. 

He remembered how to enjoy pain. How to thrive in the dark. How to push past _every limit _his body lied about having. 

The Joker wasn't human—not in the ways that mattered. 

Had he not been called a devil before—a demon? Equated with some otherworldly, _nefarious_ spirit come down to undo the work of _good _men? Had he not _embraced _that role before? 

He might be stuck in a carnal cage, but he was _more._

“Take your, uh, _lies _somewhere else. I ain’t interested,” he said eventually, stifling the mania down to a few remaining giggles. He'd found his joy again. Joy in suffering. 

Strange wasn't smiling anymore, and his glasses caught the light in a way that the Joker couldn't see his eyes. “I am not lying.” 

Pulling out a file the Joker hadn't noticed before, Strange threw it on his bed. Files spilled out, filled with small black cursive and red stamps. But a photo was among them. Carefully, like it was an apparition that might disappear if he moved too quickly, he picked it up—his mirth forgotten. 

It was Miriam. The _real _Miriam. Not the one in his head. She looked so different. Cheeks fuller, her hips rounded out—the illusion of frail gauntness gone. Her hair was short, too. If it wasn't for her eyes, he wouldn't have recognized her. But, even in just the picture, he could see something else he knew intimately. 

“You will not be leaving this institution in your lifetime, but there are ways we can make your time here… _easier.” _

So _that's _why Strange was doing this. He wanted something. 

_Don't we all? _

The Joker met his eye, managing to keep his face neutral, his eyes empty to take in _everything._

"What, ah, _exactly _do you want?" he asked. 

Strange still didn't smile, and Joker's head was a mess of manic thought. 

"To strike an accord—visitation in exchange for your cooperation.” 

There was more to it. There was _always _more. But what would Strange want the Joker to do with his _little_ sweet peach?

“How does that sound, 0801?” 

Looking down at the photo in front of him, the scar on his side hurt in a way that felt euphoric. For once, the Joker had the illusion of choice in front of him. Except, he wasn’t sure how he felt about either of them. Usually, in the _before, _if the Joker wasn’t presented with an option that left things in his favour, he didn’t play at all. 

But he _wanted _to play.

He could have the chance to kill her to prove to himself that he _could_. That she didn’t control him—that all those _fucking _feelings running in his head and ripping his chest open weren’t real, that they didn’t have a hold on him. Ignoring the revelations that he came to not so long ago about the nature of _contradition, _he focused solely on the sacrilegious.

He wanted to _break_ Miriam. He failed the first time and he wouldn't the second. He’d watch her crumble and then—_then_—he could feel whole again. The remnants of humanity—the infernal roots of his downfall—would be dead and he would be _free. _

But.

Here, he knew, he didn’t have the luxury of thinking there _was_ any way he _could _sit out of the game Strange had devised. That it would lead to the outcome that he actually wanted. He'd have to work for it. Work around the rules that were being laid out in front of him. 

That just meant he had to beat Strange at his own game. 

The Joker found a smile somewhere in the vast emptiness, felt the coming anticipation of completing a long revolution, of finally coming back around to his sun. And he felt _grand. _

"Lay it on me, _Ahab." _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Thank you to everyone who's following the story and leaving comments, you're the best and I couldn't do this without you! 
> 
> Hopefully you've read _There's No Hell Like Arkham,_ but if you haven't, there might be some things in here that you miss. The Joker, during his stay in Arkham, has been subjected to some very, _very_ inhumane and awful procedures under the direction of Doctor Hugo Strange and his newfound partner, Jonathan Crane. They've had a partnership going for the last year and a half, and have been getting up to... things that are definitely _not_ good. To elaborate too much else is to risk spoiling things for everyone, so I recommend going back to read that if you're feeling overly confused (or, leave me a comment or send me a message, I'd be glad to talk about it more!). 
> 
> One of the things I've elaborated on in _TNHLA_ is that the Joker went through an arc of change where he didn't get one of those in _The Dark Knight_. He's been through a lot and feels like he's lost almost every facet of control he used to have. Things are lining up to get ugly (potentially) and you'll see how it starts to shape up in the coming chapters... (Sorry, I'm so cruel!)
> 
> Now... some bad news. The next update, in keeping with my schedule, would come out on December 6th. I've been having some... rather substantial health problems, and it's left me in a place where I can only focus on that and getting through the last two weeks of my semester. As much as I'd like to get the next chapter out on time, I think it's going to be a week (maybe even a little longer) late. I hope the wait isn't too tortuous and I'm sorry, guys :(. 
> 
> But, good news now! I want to do another Christmas one-shot this year, and I want to hear your suggestions! Tell me what you'd like to see in one - who would you like to see pop up or a small event that takes place? Should it focus on the main canon, my AU, or an AU of my AU? Even if it's just a small moment or dynamic that you'd like to see around the theme of Christmas, I'd love to hear it! You can leave a comment here, send me a message on [FFN](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/11110894/LadyoftheSea516) or send me an anonymous ask or message on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ladyoftheseastuff)! 
> 
> Also, I had someone ask me this a little while ago: I get most of my chapter titles from different songs that I think speak to what the chapters are about or come straight from the OST titles from The Dark Knight and the Arkham games series. 
> 
> As always, a big thank you to [Khaosprinz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khaosprinz/pseuds/Khaosprinz) for all her help beta-ing this and Boag's advice! And thanks to all of you and I'll be back in a few weeks. ❤


	9. Carry Me Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again that this is so late, and thank you all for sticking with me and being patient. ❤ I'm still dealing with some health stuff, but hopefully I'll be back on track to post for the 21!

_Lush green hills, deep and rolling, with grass that grows beneath my feet, soft and wet, tickle the sensitive spots under the arch of them, weaving between my toes. They spring upward as I walk, eager to be close, to touch my skin. There's a breeze that wraps around me, pushing me forward, working its fingers through my hair and close to the scalp that makes me shiver. _

_I've been here before. Stared at this same azure sky, looked at the same trees. It was another lifetime ago, when the snow fell and embraced the earth, hardening it—leaving it unwilling to accept one of its own. My eyes burn, but I keep moving, aimless and lost. _

_But I've been here before, right? _

_"You don't have to disappear." _

_I spin around, searching for the sound of the voice. It's so familiar, an extension of me. _

_Turning in circles, I find nothing—the grass grows too long, snaring my feet. I fall forward, landing against something firm and warm. _

_"It's all right here." _

_Shoulder-length black hair, slanted eyes the colour of home. Sharp cheekbones and a smile that tells me everything will be OK, that I don't need to be afraid. I'm not alone._

_Hands grasp mine, gentle and adding the smallest bit of pressure. Something in my chest aches. _

_"If you open your eyes, you'd see." _

_My arms go around him, pressing his chest to mine. I need to hold him—I need to keep him close. He can't leave. He can't die. He can't leave me. I can't let him. _

_"Everything you need is here." _

_No, it's disappearing, the sky going gray and clouded. The grass spires up my calves, biting and sharp, the life leaving it like it's leaving me._

_"It's all right here in front of you." _

_But it isn't. It's all gone. Gone because of me._

_"Don't leave—Parker, don't leave me again—" _

_His hands bite my shoulders, fingers pressing deep into the skin. His body, once warm, grows cold—the heat sapping into the earth. _

_"You just have to open your eyes," he says softly. _

_I don't want to, but I'm under some strange spell, the kind that paralyzes—shackles you in your own body, making your bones a new kind of prison—and I look up. I'm not staring at Parker anymore. _

_This man's hair is blond and curly, wrapping around his ears and fanning down his neck. Eyes like honey left to harden, he's not smiling, but his gaze sets my chest on fire. Staring at him is the same as staring at the sun, and I can't look away. _

_His fingers trail down my cheek and I lean into the contact. I do and don't know him—he's foreign and a part of me. His touch goes down my neck, so slowly—his thumb making my skin rise to meet it. Not stopping until he reaches my sternum, he leans in close; his face makes up the world, smelling like smoke and decay—like the end of everything. _

_"You know _I'm _not going anywhere." _

_I do know it; I know it better than anything I ever have in my life. Something cool passes over my lips, fanning across my cheek to push my hair back. _

_"No matter where you go or what you do, you'll _always _think of me." _

_My eyes close, but rather than being greeted by black, a flash of colour—green, purple, and red—blinds me instead. Twisting and dancing, winking in and out and forming something—some_one. _The cold grips me until I know it’s all I’ll ever feel—all I’ll ever have alone, all that will ever wait for me until I embrace a new sun and abandon the one that died. _

_Something soft passes over my closed eyelids, brushing against the thick lines of my eyelashes, tracing my brow. _

_"Just open your eyes." _

* * *

I wake up alone. 

It’s with a jerk, a sudden spasm of my limbs that sends a painful jolt up my back to the base of my skull, that I sit up just to smack my head against the ceiling of… _something. _

_What the fuck? _

Rubbing my smarting head, my eyes adjust to the dark. Blinking away the lingering flashes of light from the dream, I’m already forgetting it as reality floods in. A groan, deep in my throat, is the only sound I can make as I try to get my dry tongue to stop sticking to the roof of my mouth. 

_What happened? _

I’m sitting in the car Naomi left for me, propped up in the driver’s seat with the back of it down all the way. Instead of seeing the lights from the warehouse district, I see a pitch of black that’s impossible to find in the city. Looking out the window, I see the moving shadows of the trees around me, the small stars above. 

_“Shit,” _I mumble, clearing my throat and searching in the dark for my keys, phone—anything to tell me exactly _what _happened. 

Things are still fuzzy, like there are parts of my brain still stuck somewhere else. I find my things on the passenger seat, and the car starts immediately when I put my keys in and turn over the ignition, its lights flashing on and illuminating some enclosed field. 

_How the hell did I get out here? Where _is _‘here’? _

Rubbing at the back of my neck, the motion pulls at the skin of my forearm, making me wince. Bringing it down under the interior light, I find gauze that’s been tightly wound around my arm and soaked through in a long line of blood. The sight of it brings back the rest of what happened today slowly, methodically illuminating just how brash I’d been, just how _badly _that could’ve ended. I groan again and smack my forehead. 

_When are you going to learn, Miri? _

Red Hood was there, he knows my name—and he’s probably the asshole who drove me out here. But, besides wrapping my arm, I don’t think he did anything. Other than the headache and my sore neck, nothing else hurts, feels out of place. 

_He didn’t do anything to _you_. Those men… they’re probably dead. _

I want to feel bad, I do—but I… I feel empty. It doesn’t have the same impact—the sight of pooling blood and the sound of a bullet going through bone, someone screaming in pain. Yet I remember those same things so well from _before_, when I was surrounded by death and men dying, rivers of blood that never seemed to end. How many times have I woken up screaming, so sure guns were being fired over my head, the smell of iron and sweat filling my nose? But this… It’s like it all was experienced by someone else, a movie I fell asleep watching, something that just… didn’t happen to me. 

But I _know _it was real—that I didn’t dream it up. I _know _what they were going to do to me, what almost happened tonight. 

_I do, don't I? _

But I also know what I wanted to do to them. How I couldn’t stop myself as I swung the pipe, hitting harder each time. 

_What were you going to do if he hadn’t come? Would you have stopped, would you have kept yourself from trying to hurt them when running away was the best option for _everyone? 

I don’t have answers for any of that, don’t feel anything I thought I would. It’s like someone carved out the experience from my head and let me hold it, examine the memory without putting together what it means_._ That distance is dangerous. It means that fear isn’t there to keep me from doing something like this again, taking away one of the few fail-safes I still have to keep me from imploding. 

_You could just stop being so stubborn… _

What did Red Hood tell me, that it was pointless to try and stop those men from dying? He was eager to shoot first and ask questions later, and the likelihood that he had a sudden change of heart is slim. And _now _I remember everything David told me—Red Hood doesn’t take prisoners, doesn’t leave witnesses behind. 

_Well, apparently he does. _

The bastard might’ve done the _gentlemanly _thing to drive me out to God knows where and been _kind _enough to not shoot me in the head, but he also knocked me out cold. 

_And he was a condescending ass. _

I don’t know _what _exactly I’ll do to recompense that—it’s not like going to find him only to _actually _smack him over the head with a pipe will do anything. 

_Sounds like as good a plan as any right now. _

I’m angry, but I can’t pick out at what. If it’s the men sent to kill or maim me, Red Hood for being there, how the entire day—every _goddamn _thing that I try to do—went straight to fucking hell, or at myself for making the entire thing happen. Just like always. 

_Good job. Yet another screw up to add to the list. _

I might need to add one more. 

_What are you supposed to do from here? _

My mind draws a blank. I could go back to the warehouse, see if there’s something left to investigate, but something tells me Red Hood would’ve made sure that anything I could’ve gathered won’t be there anymore. Going back to the apartment is an option—digging through STAGG Enterprises’ servers and seeing exactly _who _sent those men. Taking this to the GCPD—to Gordon—is also another avenue, but I dismiss it almost immediately. There would be more to confront there, and then the tricky problem of explaining exactly _how _I got all of this information. 

_Being stubborn really is going to kill you. _

I can _also _add that to the list, but it doesn’t change anything. My body tenses up, the air catching in my throat and the urge to fall back asleep becomes overwhelming. Oblivion would be easier than this, too. I push that thought away—drinking myself to sleep or taking more valium won't make this go away. 

I’m left with one option—the only viable one, anyway. All my efforts to prevent it were for nothing; I’m going to wind up exactly where I wanted to avoid the most. 

It’s time to go home. 

* * *

As much as I tried to ignore everything having to do with Gotham and the Wayne name, there were some things I couldn’t avoid. Or that I ended up searching out when the ache in my heart would grow too painful, resonating for something familiar in those late nights when sleep wouldn’t find me. Bruce moving back to the half-finished Wayne Manor was one of the few things I followed closely. 

It was a more selfish impulse—I couldn’t help but think of the years that passed and died a lifetime ago, what it was like being in that big house, all the memories and ties that came with it. When I first left Gotham, I saw the Manor being gone as a moment of release rather than a signifier of grief like I originally had. There were no physical reminders to remind me of what I lost—it was destroyed, gone in a literal spire of smoke and ruin that cleansed away everything that hurt. 

That’s what I wanted it to be. But nothing ever works out quite the way I think they will. 

Now the Manor’s back, a replica of the one that Bruce decimated, and everything it used to hold didn’t come back with it. The memories I made with Parker have no bearing there, the halls Bruce used to chase me down aren’t the same—only shadows of what was—and everything Mom ever touched, every picture we had—it’s gone. It’s all gone. 

Idling on the top of the hill and overlooking the drive that leads to the Manor, uncertainty and the familiar grip of hate paralyzes me. I can’t move forward and I can’t move back. 

_Make a decision already._

I’ve been sitting in the car, knuckles white as I grip the steering wheel, for over two hours. It was close to nine by the time I woke up and I sat, agonizing over whether this was the right decision or not, for hours—making it well-past four in the morning. Everything except a few perimeter lights is dark at the Manor, making its hulking outline barely visible. I know Alfred will be home, and as much as I’m afraid of seeing him, I’m more afraid of seeing Bruce. Thinking of how I threw the glass at his head—how I screamed at him, how I still think he deserved it and more—brings me shame. 

_You really like screwing everything up, don’t you? _

What’s left of our relationship was in shambles before I left, and now… I’m not sure what’s there to put back together anymore. 

_Breathe. Sitting here all night isn’t an option. _

The air hitches in my chest, bordering on a sob. I keep them down, holding my breath until the urge to cry ebbs. 

_Go home. _

The stretch of road is so familiar—it’s where Alfred first tried teaching me how to drive, where I crashed his favourite car. Down a small road leading into the trees is where Bruce would take us when we’d double-up on a bike and race through the low-hanging branches, the trees scratching our cheeks as we went faster. 

I want to hold onto my anger, to be mad at Bruce—mad at him for _everything, _but I can’t, not really. It leaves me—just like everything does—when I get to the front gate. 

Six different cameras, wrought-iron surrounded by dense shrubs, and a keypad are the first things to welcome me home. There’s an option to call inside on the intercom, but the thought of making that my official greeting after so long feels… wrong. 

Forgoing the intercom, I try the old family code—the one Alfred made me memorize just in case I ever went out and got a ride home from someone else. It never happened, but Alfred believing so hard that it would meant something I never fully appreciated at the time. 

“Well, here goes nothing…” 

To my surprise, the gate swings open silently after punching the code in. Only the sound of crickets hiding in the grass is in the air, the fading night absorbing the rest as it waits for the sun. 

Some things _did _change. The driveway has been altered, the road down to the servant’s quarters is on the wrong side. Tarps and metal framework still stretches and spans across the entirety of the West Wing, but the rest is clearly close to completion. It’s too opulent—even more foreign after not being here in so long, more like a place I never belonged. In the hour just before dawn, the Manor looks darker—like it’s a mausoleum rather than a house. It might have the same shape, the same cut stone and foundations, but all the life it used to hold is gone. 

Parking on a wide angle, I try to get out of the car quietly. It’s not until I shut the door and stare up at the stars I missed seeing so much that I realize I don’t have a house key—I’ll have to wake up Alfred if I want to get inside. 

_Smart thinking, Miri. Brilliant. _

I’m about to head for the backdoor when something down the grassy hill catches my eye. Walking a little further, a new memory hits me. One of a chase, my dress bunched up around my thighs and laughing—that visceral reminder of what I could’ve had, of what laid at my fingertips if I buried what's so ugly inside of me deep enough—the smell of wet earth, light shining through the glass, looking at the telescope Bruce gave me in wonder. 

I don’t know how long I stare at that little greenhouse, as if the memory is replaying for me in real-time, but I don’t want to look away. 

_It’s all gone, remember? _

Wiping at my cheeks and wincing when I touch the large, swollen bruise on my jaw, I turn around and banish the greenhouse to the back of my memory. 

The shaking in my legs spreads to my arms, not stopping until it’s in my throat. What will I say? How do I deal with Alfred? How do I avoid talking about all the things tearing me apart? How will I lie that I’m doing alright, that he doesn’t need to worry? 

Everything I want to say—everything that will take away his fear—it would all be a lie. He just has to look at me to know—I’m not the same, won’t ever _be _the same. He knows why and I wish he didn’t, I wish that I could’ve born my suffering alone. But that’s not how this works. I can’t lie to him, but I don’t know how to tell him the truth, either. 

_You never have. _

I stand at the back door, my hand rising and falling, stuck between acting and leaving again. 

_Grow a spine, Miri. It’s just a door. Knock. Ring the doorbell. Come on. _

The door swinging open saves me the trouble. My fist raised and ready, the sudden flood of light and air wafting over my face, moving my hair, almost drives out a squeak from me. 

_“Miriam—” _

The voice breaks off and my shock turns into uncertainty. Alfred’s standing in the doorway in a set of blue plaid pyjamas, hair flattened on one side, slippers haphazardly on his feet, and a fluffy housecoat wrapped around his thinning frame. He looks older than when I last saw him. He came up to Chicago once, two months after I moved, and even then he looked like he had aged five years. It’s only gotten worse, and the thick lump of guilt sits heavy in my throat. 

“Hey, Alfred.” 

I want to say something normal, for this to not feel so—so _strange. _But it's like I’m ten again, like when Mom and I would visit and the size of the house and the sight of Alfred’s suit would stifle me with its formality. I didn’t know how to be myself—not until he would grin and whisper in my ear about buried trinkets in the garden, when Bruce would take me on adventures in the woods searching for the mythical creatures we invented.

_Sheepish. You’re feeling _sheepish. _Jesus. _

Pushing my hair behind my ears doesn’t help matters, either. My chest burns, the scars on fire and searing thick lines along my sternum. He can't see them, but I know he's looking for them all the same. I’m about to try again, force something out, when I’m enveloped in a hug. My limbs freeze, my body going rigid. When was the last time someone hugged me? 

_When’s the last time that you _wanted _somebody to? _

He squeezes me tighter, arms wrapping around my shoulders and pressing me close. If it were anyone else, I’d feel trapped—claustrophobic and ready to put ten feet between them and me. But it’s not. It’s _Alfred. _I smell the sandalwood—that permanent scent of _home_, of having one constant that I always take for granted—and I will the lump in my throat not to grow larger. 

“It—it’s OK, Alfred. You don’t have to squeeze that hard,” I say with a quiet laugh. The tears come and I almost can’t keep them back, and I’m grateful when he draws away, holding me at arm’s length. 

“What the bloody hell—” 

I’m trying to smile, but I’m sure it looks entirely fake, and Alfred cuts himself off. He touches the bruise on my cheek and I try to keep back the wince. From the look on his face, I didn’t succeed. His mouth opens once, then twice, and I can tell he’s trying to figure out how to ask. He swallows and drags his eyes from the bruise to the rest of my face. Sighing, his thumbs rub small circles in my shoulders.

_‘What happened to your face? Why didn’t you return my calls? Why does it look like you were in a row?’ _

Something settles in his eyes, and all I can see is acceptance. The burning eases and it’s only then that a tear comes out, and I brush it away quickly before more can join them. 

“You trimmed your hair,” he says instead, forgoing all the questions I thought of in my head, smiling weakly. “Did someone hack at it with shears or is this one of those new styles I _still _can’t quite fathom?”

I laugh and it feels light in my chest. Genuine. It’s neither of those things, but how do I tell him that I couldn’t stand looking at how long my hair had been, feeling it brush against my skin, how it fell over my shoulders and surrounded me in a permanent reminder of—of what _he _enjoyed touching so much, wrapped his hands and buried his face in? How do I tell him that, after an especially heavy night of drinking, I took a pair of scissors and hacked at it myself, slicing my ear and nicking my neck bad enough that I had woken up in the morning covered in blood? 

_You can’t. _

That was a year ago, and I’ve been cutting it myself since. Anyone touching my hair has been enough to send me into a tailspin, and it’s only started to grow out semi-evenly after many failed attempts to manage my own curls. 

“They told me it was trendy. Maybe I need to try a different place.” Laughing it off fails, it's too stiff, and from the look in Alfred’s eyes, he knows it’s a lie. I’m thankful when he doesn’t call me out on it. 

“When’s the last time you ate, my dear? I could fix you up some supper, there’s always plenty to go around.” 

He's smiling now to help cover what we don't know how to talk about, and I'm grateful, but we’re falling back into old habits—seeing the still-bleeding wounds, the raw aches without a cure-all, and hoping that if we concentrate on what we _want _there to be instead of what _is _that it’ll somehow make it real. I take his hands in mine, feeling his wrinkled skin, the familiarity of them, how they fit against my palms. 

As we walk through the house, his questions only pertain to my life in Chicago—how it's been and if I'm resting enough, if I've met anyone or made friends. He asks about it like a parent would if their child went off to college and was visiting home for Christmas. It helps distract me from how the interior doesn’t exactly match what I remember. I try not to focus on it, letting it fade back into those shapeless forms of colour that don’t impact the _now, _severing all that might bring up something that’ll make this so much worse. 

What Alfred doesn’t ask me about is how long I’ve been back, why I didn’t call sooner, why I look so different and decided to show up close to five in the morning unannounced. He just takes me to the kitchen—an almost exact replica of the one I remember—to sit me down on a barstool at the island. He starts working with that same grace I came to know as a girl, almost like I never left at all and saw this every day: him flitting about and pulling things from cupboards and the fridge, talking to me all the while. It’s all so achingly familiar, and I didn’t know just how much I missed it until I see it happening in front of me. 

Putting a bowlful of raspberries topped with cream and a generous serving of sugar in front of me, he sits on the other bar stool and we visit—talking about everything other than what’s important. I’m so tired, but I don’t know how to broach what I need to, why I actually came. Maintaining the illusion that I’m here just to see him could be easy, but I can’t go back to pretending everything between us is alright, that we can ignore it like I ignore the rest of the world—I can’t go backwards. Not on this. 

“Is he… is he out still?” I ask eventually. It’s like I’m physically choking on the words, but it feels good to speak them aloud. Alfred looks at me with confusion and my shoulders tense. “Bruce. Is he here or is he out doing, well… whatever it is he likes to get up to.” 

Heat burns my face at remembering what happened between us before. I wonder if Bruce told Alfred what I did when he sneaked into my apartment, when I was so intent on maiming him in that fit of wrath I couldn’t master. Anger and anxiety curl together in my stomach. The memories of me screaming at him, finding out his lie—the truth of why he left and let us think him dead—I never dealt with that either. It’s a helpless feeling. So much of me wants to repair what shattered almost a decade ago, its remnants eroded long before I thought of trying to preserve them. 

_Looks like our ineptitude at handling conflict is genetic. _

“I’m… well, I didn’t check when I received the alert of a visitor approaching, but—”

“I’m right here, Alfred.” 

My body goes rigid when my eyes snap from Alfred to over his shoulder, to the entrance of the kitchen. Bruce stands there in a navy t-shirt and black jogging pants, traces of black greasepaint still marking the creases around his eyes. He looks exhausted, like he hasn’t slept in days. Physically, he looks as strong—if not more so—than when I left, but from his face, it's had a toll.

_How long has he been keeping this up? _

Doing what Batman does for a year would likely be enough to cripple a man. Bruce has been doing this for nearly three. 

_He did it to himself. No one’s making him do this. _

Bitterness floods in with regret. Both paralyze me as I stare at him, deliberating exactly what I should be doing. He saves me the trouble of getting up, walking over slowly to the breakfast bar and leaning on the opposite side. He’s smiling, but it’s just as tired and hollow as his eyes. That same urge from a few days ago to punch or hug him is at war with one another again. 

"What happened to your face?" he asks. Alfred, seeming to be as uncertain as I feel, gets up and heads to one of the cupboards to pull out teacups. 

I don’t do any of the potentially violent things I’m thinking about—sullen silence is what I greet him with instead, turning away to help Alfred make the tea. 

_Real mature. What was the point in coming if you’re going to act like a child? _

This is too much. Being _here _is too much. I want to leave—I want to go back to Chicago and the existence of total denial, where I can keep thinking none of this was ever real. 

Bruce doesn’t want me to forget. He grabs my arm when I turn my back on him, his grip firm and the pressure in his fingers building. 

"Miriam—" he starts, and it takes more restraint than I thought I could summon not to snarl. 

"You don't get to ask." I rip my arm out of his grip, keeping my chin high in a challenge. Anger’s winning out, the destructive need to watch his reactions as I drive in another barb. 

"Wh—of course I do." He says it like he means it, like he missed the point of my silence for all this time. 

_Maybe he’s already trying to fall back into old habits of his own. _

But I can’t let us. I can’t let him think that he still has a place to position himself as a protector of mine, someone I can rely on, someone I trust enough to lay myself bare to. Resentment—at leaving, for lying about what he wanted us to be, _a family, _betrayal that cut through my heart, eradicating any shot at whatever future I would’ve had if none of this had happened—curdles my blood. 

Part of me still blames him for what happened to Parker—how he saved the wrong person, didn’t do enough to find him before I did. It’s foolish; I’m displacing the blame that belongs to me on him. Parker’s death is on my shoulders, his loss something I feel every day, but I need someone to share that burden with. I need someone to take the pain so I don’t have to bear it alone anymore. 

_That’s what it always comes down to, doesn’t it? But you know better, even admitted it yourself: You’re always going to be alone. _

_Always. _

"No, you don't.” He opens his mouth to argue, but I keep going, “What, don't tell me you're the only one who's allowed to go out and do something completely stupid and get punched in the face for it?" 

He’s silent for a moment, mouth opening from the firm line it was in before. Alfred’s frozen behind him, hand caught mid-motion as he reaches for the sugar bowl. 

"I feel painted into a corner here," Bruce says, chuckling and rubbing a hand through his hair. 

It’s only now that I feel that loss, that absence of sound—the sounds of my family—that used to get me through the worst days all those years ago. I didn’t realize how much I missed it—missed _this, _but I’ve never been good at saying the things I mean, articulating what’s important. Anger is easier. Anger makes things clear and, most importantly, it keeps my heart from tearing open again. 

"If you didn't want me getting hurt or digging into things I shouldn’t, you should've been more specific,” I say, crossing my arms. My sleeves cover the bandage and cuts, the intersecting scars that line them, and my hands curl into tight fists. 

He tilts his head, smile becoming almost genuine—alive, and his eyes soften in a way that makes me want to cry. "Like that would've helped." He breathes heavily through his nose in a half-laugh, turning and leaning his back against the counter. His smile is infectious, and I try to keep one from pulling at my own lips. His smile changes, turning into something patronizing, looking down at me and raising an eyebrow. “I know it's hard to grasp, but I have training, proper equipment, experience—” 

I scoff and it almost turns into a full-fledged guffaw. 

_He was always good with excuses. _

The urge to smile is gone, and I’m almost more upset that he doesn’t look fazed to see me—that he isn’t upset about how things ended before. He’s almost smug that things will be different this time, that I’m coming around. It's because I came back after all, am showing that, deep down, I'm not really _that _mad. That this has an easy fix. It shouldn’t make me want to prove him wrong—demonstrate how mistaken he is—but it does.

And then it hits me—it’s been so long since I’ve seen it that it took a while to recognize. Bruce is faking—he’s not acting like himself, not the one I remember from nine years ago, not even the one from two. This isn’t Bruce, this is _Bruce Wayne—_the condescending, heavy-drinking, partying, billionaire manwhore. The one I’d see on every cover of those stupid celebrity gossip magazines—they’d focus on his extravagant and eccentric hobbies, dating habits, and his rogue cousin, how he must be _devastated _because of how everything _I did _must’ve impacted _him. _

_What’s a family reunion without some good ol’ self-destruction, hey, Miri? _

I know they’re lies. _I do. _But they still make me angry, afraid. 

Because I’m terrified that they’re telling the truth—even a sliver of it. 

I swallow the fire and venom I want to spit, but I don’t know what to do without it either. “They’re overpriced hockey pads and we both know it,” I say eventually, closing my eyes and rubbing my forehead. “You still don’t get to ask. Thought you’d be able to at least guess because of all that extracurricular _stalking _you’ve been doing.”

Teacups clatter against the counter and Alfred lets out a small noise of surprise. “You’ve been doing _what, _Master Bruce?” he asks calmly, but I don’t miss the critical look he shoots over his shoulder. 

I feel a juvenile sense of satisfaction when I see Bruce’s mask starting to slip, the smarmy grin faltering. His face goes placid, bent on hiding what’s going on underneath—but I see a glimpse: it’s tired misery, exhaustion and a driven sense of self-destructive purpose. It's exactly what I see when I look at myself. 

Pushing away from the counter, he approaches and stands too close—well, it’s only a few feet away, but it still feels like an indicator of the relationship we had before rather than the one we have now. “Did it have to do with the fire in the warehouse district?” he asks, expressionless and ignoring Alfred’s comment. 

_Fire?_

My eyebrows shoot up in question and I straighten. “What are you talking about?” 

He turns into a statue, drawing himself higher and his head tilting a centimetre to the side. When he gives me the address, I feel the blood leach away from my face and hands, curling into a tight ball in my chest. My mouth opens and shuts quickly, a thousand thoughts running through my head at once. 

_‘Hope you know that’s pointless.’_

They’re dead. If he didn’t shoot them first, then he left them to burn. That distance I felt when I woke up is fading, and the smell of bodies burning wafts through the room like I’m back on the ship. 

_Don’t think about it. It’s not happening—it’s not real. _

“So you _were _there.” 

He sounds monotone, but he somehow manages to temper that with a look of fury in his eyes. It fans my own, gives me a distraction to funnel everything through. Effacing rage is better than confusing turmoil. 

“Yeah. Emphasis on _was,” _I snap, my jaw clenching tight. 

His eyes narrow at my tone, at the building confrontation. This isn’t Bruce either—this is all Batman. “Who else was there—who started it?” 

_He even lowered his voice an octave_. _Jesus _fucking _Christ. _

I’m about to tell him where to shove his questions, hit him with a few verbal jabs and storm out, when Alfred steps between us, holding a cup of tea in each hand. 

“Now, I did not raise either of you to be so uncivil.” He motions for me to take a cup and I obey, begrudgingly appreciating how the hot china warms my hands, and Bruce does the same. I glare at Bruce through the tendrils of rising steam and Alfred cocks an eyebrow. “Let’s move to the parlour, make ourselves comfortable. It’s too early for bickering and I may be a butler extraordinaire, but I am_ much _too old to take on the role of mediator.” 

He’s smiling, but this is just like when I was little and being stubborn about something. Mom would give up quickly but Alfred had a tone of finality that was difficult to challenge. Muttering something along the lines of “fine”, I choose to ignore the indulgent grin on his face and start walking, determined not to be lagging behind with Bruce. 

_You really are being childish. Christ, Miri. _

The rest of the Manor is just like it was before, and I follow the route that’s ingrained in my muscle memory, going down the hall to the foyer and around the grand staircase. I find a seat in an wing-backed armchair, struggling with feelings of petulance.

Maybe Bruce and I had never really learned to communicate the way we should have. Were things liable to break down this way, even if none of this had happened? What would have happened if I didn’t let him pretend when he got back, if I challenged him—ripped into him when the break was fresh so that we could set the bone and let it heal? Now it’s set wrong, and no matter how many times we re-break it, there’s no getting it to be the same again. 

“Why did you come, Miriam?” Bruce asks, walking in to lean against the fireplace. 

Alfred follows in behind, sitting in the chair opposite and sipping at his tea as he observes us. I’m not sure if he’s here to referee or if he’s as eager to hear my answers as Bruce is. He’s always been so willing to forgive, let it be water under the bridge. Accepting what comes and what he can’t change. 

_You could learn from that. _

Bruce won’t look at me, but he stares into the fireplace with no flames alive to bring us warmth or light. 

_Just… maybe try being honest. You don’t _have _to make this worse—you’re _choosing _to do that. _

“Because you were right.” 

Head rising, his eyes narrow again. Schooling my own features is something I’ve never quite mastered, and that still holds true. I want to stay angry, to have that distance—but I’ve missed them. I’ve missed seeing them every day, having Bruce being an absentee brother-figure be the only thing wrong with our little ‘family’.

_No—that’s not entirely it. You just don’t want to be alone anymore. Haven’t you learned anything? _

Now it’s my turn to not maintain eye contact. “I looked into the chip.”

Hope sparks in Bruce’s eye and something else—something I don’t recognize—settles over his expression. “What did you find?” 

Taking a long sip from my tea, I let out a long, pent-up breath and explain. Bruce’s body stays rigid, face blank, as he listens intently, and I treat it like any other debrief I’ve had with Naomi. My language is specific, all details reported. Well, except for the prolonged interaction with Red Hood. Just mentioning him had Bruce perk up and glare, staring at me with an intensity that means he’s met him before. That's the only time he interrupts me, to ask for descriptors, what he said. I keep it vague and I'm not even sure why, but I'm sure that Red Hood wasn’t as gentle in comparison with Batman as he was with me.

I forego telling Bruce about the comments the men made, how I nearly caved in one of their heads with a pipe, or anything involving most of my interaction with Red Hood. Those are things I’m not willing to navigate with him right now. Bruce concentrates hard, dedicating everything I say to memory. 

“I woke up in my car and came here. Wasn’t much else _to _do,” I finish, handing him the flash drive with the incomplete code that I extracted. 

Bruce nods, hand on his chin as he thinks and sinking onto the couch opposite me _“AA,” _he repeats to himself under his breath. He’s silent for a moment before his back jerks upright, and I can almost see the lightbulb blinking above his head. “STAGG Enterprise sells equipment and prosthetics to a host of medical facilities, but how many of them in Gotham would need something that doesn’t serve a medical purpose embedded in a patient’s nervous system?”

I get caught up in Bruce’s energy like we’re goddamn Nancy Drew or the _Hardy Boys_—or whatever book series that was—and I feel the involuntary thrum of excitement. It was like this back in Chicago: When there was enough to occupy my mind that I could ignore everything else, I threw myself into it. Even if what they were asking turned my stomach, added to that invisible burden of guilt. 

_Still can’t kick those habits yourself, can you? _

“Nowhere legitimate—they’d need FDA approval, be doing clinical trials, and information on these would be easier to find.”

“Exactly,” Bruce says, nodding. 

The Bruce I knew _is _dead, I know that. The man who replaced him let me down in a way that I don’t know if I have it in me to forgive. 

But I don’t know how to forgive myself either. 

“Gotham’s a hot pile of corruption, but where would someone have the money and resources to get these and have STAGG willing to help them cover it up?” I ask, leaning back into the cushions as my brain runs in circles. 

Maybe this is a way to try something else. He can’t talk to me as much as I can’t talk to him, but… 

_How long do you want to keep being angry, Miri? _

Anger makes sense, black hate has rotted enough in me that it’s familiar. Letting in something else… Why does the idea of it scare me so much? 

_“AA,”_ he repeats again.

Bruce stands, going over to a piano sitting in a far corner and pulling back the lid covering the keys. I follow him, the pieces falling in place in my brain as they fall into his. 

“Arkham Asylum.” 

“Well, that’s a cheery development, sir,” Alfred says from his seat, still sipping his tea. 

Bruce starts playing random notes on the piano, some off-beat tune. Last time I remember him attempting to play something was before Mom died. 

"I thought it was some sort of… twentieth-century Bedlam-type place?" 

"It was,” he says as the bookcase behind the piano swings open and my mouth drops, “when Crane was running it." 

I close it quickly, looking from the bookcase turned ‘hidden entrance’ to Bruce’s face. He’s smirking. 

_How many infuriating men can I deal with in one night? _

"And it's not anymore," I say begrudgingly, following him around the corner to find an elevator. Looking back, Alfred gives me a wave and a sad smile. Silently, I resolve to show no more surprise. 

_The man’s a billionaire and dresses like a _bat _in his spare time. Why are you still surprised by anything he does? _

Stepping inside, he motions me to join him. As soon as I do, the door closes, leaving Alfred upstairs as Bruce and I descend. 

"No, not since Arianna Hill started funding it—expanding their facilities and their patient population." 

"What do you mean?" Being so close to him brings the burning again, and I look around the small tin box, everywhere other than his face, and will away the claustrophobia. 

"She came to Lucius a year ago asking for our mental health outreach programs to merge with the city's.” The doors open to a large black, cavernous expanse. Air damp and holding enough condensation that I can feel it on my tongue, water drips down from some unseen ledge and lands on my nose. It’s loud down here, but Bruce doesn’t wait for me to take it in. “He said ‘no’." 

Following behind, I keep my arms wrapped around my torso and pull my sweater close, shivering from the cold. The cave is large and rushes of water cascade down and form large pools. Before I can even wonder why Bruce brought me down here—or _how _exactly this place came to be—I see the large, sprawling computer terminal with almost half a dozen different screens. It’s then that I notice the protruding shelves filled with black objects that I can’t fully distinguish along the walls of stone. Chattering coming from above alerts me to its moving masses, the high-pitched screeches that I recognize as belonging to bats. Fifty-feet worth of stacked, brick arches come in and out of focus as bats fly in and out, weaving down and around before returning to their perches. 

Bruce keeps walking ahead, taking a seat at the terminal. Instead of excitement, or even curiosity—hate, anger, _resentment_ rises back up. But, once again, I don’t really know where it’s aimed—only that it burns white-hot, scorching my being from the inside. It makes me feel helpless, like it’s all I’ll feel—that it’ll burn until only ash remains. 

_Where has anger gotten you, Miri? _

It’s what made me survive in Chicago, forging on out of spite and fear. But now that I’m here… it’s like I’m emptying, losing everything I thought made me strong. I can’t be vulnerable here, not with Bruce. 

_Then where can you be? _

"Why are there more patients?" I ask, clearing my throat and purposefully not asking any questions about why a giant cave filled with flying rodents—I really shouldn’t have expected differently, given his whole _costume _and all that—and a computer are down _here _of all places. 

Bruce lets us carry on like we’ve done this before, as if it’s a routine we’ve already developed, and I try not to stare at any one thing too long. 

"They're afraid—terrified of having another Joker or Scarecrow hiding in the streets. Anyone arrested with signs or a history of mental illness are sent to Arkham." 

At the mention of _his _name it feels like I’m being branded, the air stopping in my chest and the whispers that never leave prowling the edge of my mind. A shiver goes down my spine and I crack my neck, closing my eyes and breathing deep.

"It's more of a super-prison than a facility to treat the ill," he finishes, sounding grim and frowning. 

The implications hit immediately. I’d heard about the crackdowns happening in Gotham, the mass trials for the people I doxxed for taking part in the polls, the backed-up justice system that can’t keep up with the number of people being incarcerated, the rioters who helped _him _in his terror-spree. I knew it was bad, but not like this. 

"That's—" 

"Wrong? Yes. But it's also understandable."

He starts up the computer and plugs in the drive I gave him, watching as the files download. My skin crawls and eyes get hot. This was already overwhelming, but being away allowed me to have distance in the immediate aftermath of what I helped happen. A good deal of this is my fault. Would any of it have happened if I had been less of a coward, if I had stayed strong and had him kill me in the beginning? Guilt smothers me, just like it always has, and I don’t know how to redress it, release its hold so I can breathe again. 

_It’ll never go away. You’re poison, remember? This is… just what you do, isn’t it? _

_You ruin people. Everyone. _

Something warm lands on my shoulder and squeezes gently; I go rigid. "That's not your fault, Miri." His voice is soft. Reassuring. He sounds like he believes what he’s saying, but he doesn’t see how that’s a lie. 

Twisting out of his reach, dislodging his hand with more force than required, I glare again. Wrath has become an elusive figure, but I grasp what I can and hold it tight, letting it burn into me. 

"Looks like whoever replaced Crane isn't much better,” I bite, my face hardening as I watch Bruce retract, putting the mask in place and embodying the guise of detached impartiality. 

"No,” he says, voice just above a murmur. He goes back to staring at the screen, face hardening back to that impenetrable stone. “I'll need to investigate further into the new director. I need to know if he’s involved." Clicking away, he brings up the command keys that I cracked, his brows furrowing together as he puzzles over the same words I did. “‘Jest’, ‘captivate’?”

“Yeah, I couldn’t make sense of it either.” Mirroring his look of detachment, I stare at the screen, at the lines of code that are missing from making it functional. "Those are verbal commands, meant to activate… something. Too much data is corrupted to know specifics. We need to find the source code, or who programmed them." 

He nods and I suddenly think of Naomi’s “request”. She wants me to go to Arkham—_for therapy. _Shuddering and breathing shallow, the world does a momentary spin as I think about what that means. Who’ll be there. What they’re actually doing. Fear comes first—fear of _everything. _There are a thousand other places I’d rather be than there, talking to some stranger like they can give me answers with some hollow platitudes and being in the same building, the same _one-mile radius,_ as that goddamn _bastard _is enough to make me hyperventilate. 

_“Let’s turn that frown upside down.” _

_Don’t think about it—it’s not happening. You’re fine. Breathe. _Breathe_._

I’m glad that Bruce is too engrossed to notice, that his inattention is something beneficial for once. As afraid as I am, I also see another lead. I don’t know why I entertain the possibility, why I feel so aimless, so… _lost. _

_It’s not like this will help either. _

But what else will? Valium and alcohol won’t. Neither will rotting in that apartment. 

_“What do you think is _left _for __you? _Huh?” 

I shake my head but the voice stays in my ear, _his _breath on my neck. 

_“You have nobody, _no one! _Who could ever want ya now, _hmm?”

"Naomi—Colonel Matsumoto… she wants me back in therapy." I say it through my teeth, eyes still closed until my breathing calms. He finally turns around, eyebrows raised. Bruce almost looks hopeful, like I somehow decided on opening up. My mouth pulls into a tight line. "She said she was sending my intake forms to Arkham." 

"No." 

_Like you’ve got final say on shit. Jesus—maybe he hasn’t changed at all. _

I roll my eyes and somehow manage to feel like I’m living out the experience I never had of being an angst-ridden teenager arguing with her mother hen for a parent. "I'm going regardless. If I don't, Naomi will drag me there herself." He opens his mouth to interrupt, but I talk over him. "You're not going to be able to break in—not without causing trouble. But I'll already be inside, I can get access to things without them knowing." 

He can’t deny the logic, but he seems hell-bent on it anyway. _"No." _

"I don't need your permission." 

I stand taller and glare. He doesn’t get to do this—drag me in again just to leave me in the dark. He doesn’t get to cherry-pick what does and doesn’t affect me. Bruce dragged me into all of this the day he got back and decided to lie. He turns stern, rising out of his chair and his body language indicates that he’s getting ready for a fight. Even now, the urge to have him tear into me, for me being able to rip into him—compounds. 

_Maybe it’s easier if you really did have nothing to come back to. There’d be nothing left to disappoint you—not like before. _

"Again, if you _didn’t _want me checking into things, you should’ve said as much and not left the damn thing with me in the first place.” He’s only a few inches taller than me, and I think if this was two years ago he’d have had more energy to fight me on this. “Don't be surprised when shit doesn't go the way you wanted—I'm not here to follow orders from _you._ I do enough of that in my day job." 

He lets out a long breath before pinching his nose. Conceding my point isn’t far behind. "Miriam—" 

He knows I’m right—I can see it—and I feel like driving the point home. 

"Either you can get over yourself, _help me _instead of being a control freak, and we can do what you said you wanted all along—which was, you know, making sure there _weren't_ more people showing up dead—or you can keep being a knob and I'll do it myself."

I don’t look away for once, my eyes unwavering as I stand firm. He looks down at the bruise on my jaw, briefly glancing at the place where the scar’s carved into my chest. The compulsion to pull my sweater away, to make it stop touching the skin, is keen—but I don’t fidget. I won’t let him shove me back in the dark, I won’t give him any ground on this. 

Bruce tries his best to stay stern, to think of a counter-argument, but the corner of his mouth twitches and he chuckles through his nose. "Looks like you painted me into another corner." 

I want to stay mad, for it to fuel my case, but, just like before, his growing smile is infectious. "Only have yourself to blame." 

This is… almost close to teasing—close to being something like I remember. 

I can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not. 

“You asked me to help. This is part of the package.” 

Squinting and darting his eyes away for a moment, Bruce shifts and I know I’ve won. “On three conditions.”

“You don’t get to dictate _anything _to me—”

“Stop being so—so _obstinate _for a minute. Please.” 

The near-pleading shuts me up for a moment. His eyes soften, and I’m taken back to that winter morning when Bruce held my hands and told me that no matter where we were or what we did, I’d never be alone. I want that to be true. 

But I know it isn’t. It was a lie—one wrought out of kindness—but a lie all the same. 

“I can’t… You can’t go around and not talk to me, Miri,” he finishes, attempting to banish the emotion from his voice and only half-succeeds. It makes my chest cinch tighter until I can barely breathe.

_Anger covers a multitude of things, doesn’t it? _

So does snark. 

“Funny. You do it all the time.” 

He huffs in exasperation, swinging his arms out before shutting his mouth quickly. Rubbing his chin, I can tell he’s trying to be patient. It makes me want to push him even more. “Will you _listen?” _Deciding to leave the jabs unsaid, for now, I roll my eyes and wave for him to continue. “One: You don’t take any unnecessary risks.”

I bark out a laugh and I can’t tell if I mean it antagonistically anymore—my damn smile is still there and I can’t seem to make it go away entirely. “Define _‘unnecessary’.”_

Bruce glares, but it’s in the same way he used to when he’d be studying and I’d come tearing into his study and attempt to drag him away to play outside with me. It has about the same effect now as it did then. Twisting away and walking around this large cavern that Bruce likely spends all his time in, I wonder how much of the past is going to be repeated here. 

“Fine, fine. I won’t be… _reckless, _if that’s what you mean,” I finally relent, picking up a—what does he even call these, _batarangs? _They’re cold and sharp and I have an urge to throw it at him. 

Nodding, he continues, “Second… Reconnaissance is all you’re doing. Intel gathering. Nothing different than what you do for the government now.” 

Biting back a reply, I drop the bat-shaped shuriken and grimace. Bruce doesn’t want to know what I really do for them, and, even if it wasn’t classified information, I don’t know if I’d ever tell him.

“Fine.”

“That means bringing what you find to _me, _not going out to warehouses—_by yourself—_without telling anyone.” 

Nodding isn’t enough for him. He crosses his arms and stares me down until I give him a verbal acknowledgement. 

_He really is a mother hen. Jesus. _

“Yeah, agreed.”

He walks over and takes away the other gadgets in my hands, giving me a look that says _these aren’t toys _when that’s _exactly _what they are, and stands too close. 

“About what I saw in your apartment,” he trails off, clearing his throat to try again. He’s only said seven words, but I know exactly what he’s referring to. Shame makes my face hot when I think of it all again—the screaming, the cans at his feet, the demonstration of how much I’ve lost it. “Will that be a problem?” he asks, moving until I meet his eyes. 

I can smell his cologne—how it hasn’t changed—coming from his shirt and the sweat from his skin. It’s that same earthy smell—freshly mown grass and cedar. It erases the last eighteen months, like they didn’t happen. I want so desperately for that to be true that I feel tears pricking my eyes and I turn away, distancing myself to breathe in the damp, cool air of the cave.

“No. It won’t.” 

I don’t even know if that’s true or not, but I want it to be. He sighs and I stare ahead, watching the water battering against the black rock. 

“This is important, Miriam. I need your word.”

Shoving my hair back from my face, I can’t look at him. “My word for what?”

“If it’s getting too dangerous, if I can’t… if I can’t be there, I need you to promise me you’ll stop if I ask.” There’s pain in his voice and I look up just in time to see hints of the man that I saw shattering in the hospital after he dragged me out of the river. This man is afraid. “I need that from you, Miri.”

I stare at him for a long time, trying to decide if I say the words, I’ll mean them. Lying is something I try to avoid now, not giving out promises I know I won’t keep. He might’ve lied to me, gouged out my heart and stranded us on our own private islands of hell, but… I don’t want to do the same to him. As _angry_, as _mad, _as _resentful _I feel, as much as going back and drinking would make this easier, would erase some of the pain, I can’t find it in myself to feel that now. Maybe this is like with Jason and Zareen, when I foolishly thought that maybe I could be better.

_And then you went and screwed that up, too, didn’t you? _

But how is anything supposed to change if I don’t do anything differently? Do I really want to lose my family? Yes, the valium is waiting back at the apartment for me, but I don’t want that to be my first escape anymore. This… this could be the last shot we have at building something new, bridging the gulf we both created. Because, if I’m being honest, I can’t just blame Bruce—no matter how much I want to. I had a part in this, just like I did with everything. 

“I… I’ll stop if I’m in over my head. But I want you to trust me when I say I’m not—that I can handle it,” I say quietly, all traces of hostility gone. The energy between us changes. His shoulders relax as his eyes search my face. “I want you to promise, too. Promise that you won’t treat me like a child, that _you _won’t hide things from me. If you want me to help, then you’re honest.” I take a shaky breath, lowering my arms and facing him head-on. _“Always.” _

Bruce doesn’t say anything, but he extends his closed hand—only his pinky extended. I almost cry, but I hold it back. We used to do that when I was a kid, before I outgrew it when I was eight. I’d make him promise and swear on the stupidest things, but he’d do it. And he always kept them. My heart pumps against my chest painfully, and I almost didn’t think I’d recognize this feeling again. This… feeling of belonging. In the back of my mind, I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop, for things to go to hell and me with it. I know these things aren’t meant to last, that I’m delaying the inevitable. 

But… right now I don’t care. There’s only so long I can go, how much pain I can take on my own. 

When I return the gesture, my pinky wrapping around his, he smiles and I hope I’m not making a mistake. 

_“Always.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter and I'd love to hear what you think! I appreciate all of you so freaking much ❤.
> 
> I'm still taking suggestions for the holidays one-shot, but right now I'm thinking it'll be three (short) parts that takes place during one of the Christmases during the 18 months between _Everything Burns_ and _There's No Hell Like Arkham_. There'll be a chapter for Alfred and Bruce, one for Miriam, and another for Joker during his time in Arkham (it'll be _less_ depressing, though, promise!). You can leave a comment here, send me a message on [FFN](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/11110894/LadyoftheSea516) or send me an anonymous ask or message on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ladyoftheseastuff) with anything you'd like to see :D. 
> 
> And, as always, a big thank you to [Khaosprinz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khaosprinz/pseuds/Khaosprinz). I'll be back soon with a new chapter and then the holiday fic :).


	10. Esprit Quittant le Corps

_ Burning. _

_ Scorched earth and singeing air ripped apart by flying bullets, shrapnel tearing through skin and smouldering bodies as smoke coated his lungs. _

_ Everything was burning, a signal for the end. The end of him. _

_ Even the blood weeping from his side, each inhale a new form of agony, trailed down in dark red streaks of magma that deformed the flesh beneath. _

_ He was dying. He knew that. He welcomed it. _

_ “Someone get a medic!” _

_ No. He needed to die. They all did—for everything they’d done. For what they were about to do. _

_ Hard pressure tried to shove the life pouring from him back into the lesions that marked his entire left side. _

Let me die.

_ He thought he said the words aloud, but hot sand choked his throat. The pressure didn’t stop. Something blocked out the sun, halted the blaze that branded his eyes, but he still couldn’t see. _

_ “Stay with me, soldier.” _

_ He wasn’t a soldier—not after— _

_ “Lazarus, come on—” _

_ They couldn’t even use his real name. But, then again, he couldn’t remember if he’d even told anyone what the real one was. _

_ After the smells came the screams. They were the wails of the dead, echoing up from Hades as they were beckoned below, their souls descending with their spilled blood draining down through the dry earth. Erebos would be their prison walls. They’d burn, their souls ignite and boil and bubble, skin peel and drip like warm wax. They’d earned it—punishment without an end. _

_ He knew they deserved to feel that. Everyone who’d done what they had. _

_ And still, he didn’t die. _

_ He became a twisted emissary, a wraith meant to live a half-life—to send everyone with a soul as black as his down into the depths, settle the call for retribution until he could join them in one last act of atonement. _

_ He was a ghost. They all were. _

_ Burning down what was rotten so that new life could grow, replace and envelop the poison, cleanse the ranks that he had become a part of, Jason Todd would set the world on fire. _

* * *

Not wanting to be rude, he didn’t bother knocking. After all, visiting at 12:19 am for an impromptu housecall would just be _impertinent_.

_ Couldn’t have that, could we? _

“Breach,” Red Hood ordered.

Normally, he was one to work alone. Things tended to play out better that way—fewer chances of a colossal fuck-up causing a chain-reaction he couldn’t control—but there were times when he needed the assistance of others, and he saw no better manner to use the miscreants he recruited from rival gangs. Unruly though they might be, all they needed were a few weeks of Red Hood’s brand of militaristic discipline to get into shape. And they followed orders like a dream.

_ Oh, Sarge would be _proud_. _

The front door of Black Mask’s stash house smacked into the wall, wood splintering and cracking into chunks around the handle. They filed in, AR-15’s raised and shot the first dipshits in view as they rose from their seats, scrambling for their handguns—two even went for machetes. 

Their opponents outmatched and outgunned, his men cleared the first floor quickly. Rapid bursts of fire—the sound barely muffled by the suppressors on the ends of the barrels—bodies dropping and men shouting was all he heard for the three minutes it took to sweep the second floor and basement. His men split off into two groups, silent and their leader’s orders in their heads. These were no longer the unorganized and impulsive gangbangers scrounging around Crime Alley like Jason Todd had once been as a teen. Red Hood had trained himself a small paramilitary group, and he almost smiled as he watched them in action.

A few more shots went off before things in the house went quiet. “Upstairs clear!” Sean Flannery shouted from the top of the stairs. Red Hood stood just enough in view to wave a hand in acknowledgement.

“What’s our haul lookin’ like?” he asked.

“Three cases of RPGs, HE and HEAT warheads, and custom-made automatic rifles, and some boxes with—with biohazard symbols on it.” 

He laughed, catching Sean off guard. “Think he was a despot ruling a military state,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. 

Even for a house in the Narrows, Black Mask’s stash house was a piece of work. Mei Tzu gave it up easily after she joined ranks—he knew to expect drugs, but the rest were added bonuses. Red Hood was still surprised the house hadn’t fallen over years ago. Walls stained, an ugly floral-patterned couch—and he was certain that its original colour had not been brown—the floors covered in mud, dust, and rat shit were almost comical next to the plasma screen TV with stacks of heroin acting as its stand. Bodies on the ground and blood running between the grooves of the floorboards, Red Hood stepped over them as he took stock of his new inventory, tallying what exactly he’d keep and what he’d burn.

After the incident with Batman on the docks almost a week prior, Black Mask was running out of places to store his goods, and Red Hood finally had found something that couldn’t be replaced—not easily. When “Lazarus” had had missions overseas toppling governments in countries they had no business being in, there was a formula for coup d’etat that they had hammered in his brain. The US Military may not have meant for their tactics to be used on their home soil, but it would work in Gotham all the same.

_ They never expected their ghosts to come back to haunt them, did they? _

The first step was undercutting the head of state, convincing their supporters that they were on the wrong side: Get them to turn and half the battle was won. Cutting off resources, controlling both the people and the flow of information were vital. Ingraining the belief that he would win was paramount. Red Hood’s ascension to power wouldn’t be quiet—it would be bloody and violent—but he’d make it quick. Black Mask would be dead and he’d be there to fill the void, circumvent the power vacuum and crush anyone who tried otherwise.

“Sir.”

Red Hood turned to find Tommy Quelling, his lieutenant and by far the most competent amongst his group, standing in the filthy kitchen. Filled to the brim with unwashed dishes and opened cans whose contents had long been consumed, the basement door open beside her. 

Tommy was the good cop to Red Hood’s bad. She’d done some shady shit in her life, but nothing Red Hood hadn’t done once himself. He didn’t have ‘proper’ soldiers under his command, but he had made do. From the furrowed brows and grim line of her mouth, Tommy had found something unexpected. His stomach knotted and twisted, but he forced himself forward. 

“Report.”

“Think it’s best you see for yourself,” Tommy said, shifting her weight and gripping her rifle tight. With the only light streaming in weakly through the filthy windows, Tommy’s eyes seemed to float above the red line of her bandana as her black skin blended with the dark. 

“Don’t like the sound of that.” His words were a truthful articulation of what he felt and a warning. Tommy didn’t blink, but Red Hood watched her throat dip as she swallowed. 

Descending slowly, he kept one hand by his hip, ready to draw his pistol. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his own people, but he really didn’t trust his own people. 

_ Trusting anyone is the first nail in the coffin. _

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, the blood drained from his face, hands dropping down and his body freezing in place. 

_ What the _actual _shit— _

“Sir? Intel didn’t say anything about this.”

Red Hood held up a hand, signalling the man to shut his ever-loving mouth as he kicked his brain back into gear. 

Black Mask had taken the term “stash house” all too literally. The basement had nine people in it—young women, girls, and a couple of boys. They looked tired, beyond exhausted, some doped up—probably on the shit upstairs—and hungry. Red Hood knew what their eyes were telling him. He’d seen it every day on the streets after he ran away from his last foster home, when he had done anything—_ anything _—to make sure he didn’t go back, that he didn’t starve to death. The memories made him feel physically ill, like the world had spun off its axis. 

_ Don’t think about it. You don’t get the fucking luxury of that. _

The youngest girl looked no more than eight-years-old. They were all visibly terrified; no doubt they’d heard the gunfire. His stomach gave another twist. 

“Go upstairs.”

“Wha—are you sure, sir?” one of his men asked, looking from Red Hood to the group of people cowering further together in the corner. 

“Take your asses upstairs and the guns with you. Prepare the secondary vehicle—don’t load any of the haul in there. Make it fit in the moving van or it stays to burn.” 

The modulator once again made his voice deeper, more threatening, but that meant that the terror the people on the floor already felt amplified and focused on him, on his words. His men didn’t question him again, running back up the stairs to carry out orders. 

_ God-fucking-damnit_. 

Once he was sure they were gone, he reached up to remove his faceguard and pulled back his hood. The domino mask was still in place, but they could see his face, know that he was human. His small white streak of hair might be enough for them to pick him out of a line-up, but he’d take the risk. 

The basement was in worse shape than the rest of what he’d seen of the house, the air filled with stale sweat and fear, and he dropped down into a crouch. “How long have you been here?” He made sure his voice stayed soft, made no moves for his weapons and shifted his jacket to at least keep them from view. When no one answered, he rubbed a gloved hand through his hair and tried again. “I’m not gonna hurt you. No one here will.” 

The women were the first to relax their shoulders, but the kids still saw a devil, and he couldn’t blame them—it took years for him to learn that not all people were monsters, but he knew to recognize them when he had been nine years old. 

He kept his voice level, even as his heart hammered against his chest. “I just need to know where to take you—if you’ve been here for a while, I’ll take you to a hospital. Otherwise, I’m taking you to get help, a shelter that’ll make sure you’re safe.”

He had one in mind—it was one of the few places left in Gotham with any sort of funding independent from the city council. It meant they wouldn’t report them to get shipped off to Arkham or ICE. Calling the police didn’t enter his mind: He already began planning a very different sort of justice for the men who did this. One that wouldn’t end with any of the bastards being left alive. Gotham might’ve changed in the last two years with Dent and Mayor Garcia and then again after the Siege and Mayor Hill, but it wasn’t enough. 

_ It won’t ever _be _enough. _

“Will you let me help you?” he asked after they didn’t reply. Some seemed apprehensive, and he knew the type of distrust, the kind that moulds misanthropy into your soul. Even though he knew it like the air he breathed, he didn’t know how to break through it, how to show that he wasn’t the same. 

“Why should we believe you?” one of the women asked. She looked marginally older than the rest—still no more than twenty-five—and he saw the fire of hate when he looked at her.

_ Good. Means she’s strong. _

He also knew words meant nothing, only actions did. Pulling out the Colt Mustang from his boot, he spun it around so the barrel faced his chest and stretched out for her to take it. 

“You don’t have to but, if you think you need to, you can shoot me—or any other bastard up there—in the head. You don’t have anything to fear from me.” Never breaking eye contact, she grabbed the handle, knuckles quickly going white. “Safety’s off. Just be careful where you’re pointing it, alright?” 

When she nodded, he rose slowly, making sure to keep his hands far away from the remaining guns on his person, and backed up toward the stairs. They followed suit, standing while staying huddled together as a group. 

“I’m gonna tell them you’re coming and to back off. There’ll be a van you can get into. You’re gonna keep the gun on the driver until they drop you off—you’ll be long gone, the assholes keeping you here are dead upstairs, and I’ll make damn sure no one follows.” Still as slow as before, he put the facemask back in place before pulling up his hood. “That sound like a good plan to you?” 

Several of them nodded and let the woman with the gun take the lead. 

“We’re coming up. Keep your guns down,” he called up the stairs, taking two at a time to make sure none of the idiots suddenly lost more of the few brain cells they had left while his back was turned. 

Tommy still stood in the kitchen, her rifle slung across her back, and her fingers twisting a dreadlock between them as her eyebrows screwed together. 

“You’re taking them to Saint Mary’s Shelter. Make sure you’re not followed and leave the car with them. Call in your location and we’ll pick you up at 0300.” Motioning for her guns, Tommy picked up the cue and began handing them over, but he didn’t miss the stare she gave to the woman holding his Colt. “She’s keeping the gun.”

Being that most of his face was covered and he was wearing a mask, he couldn’t communicate that she didn’t have anything to worry about, but Tommy had followed orders without incident before and was still alive to talk about it. He liked to think that counted for something. 

“Got it, sir,” she replied, nodding in deference.

He watched them file out, his remaining men looking on with either indifference or barely suppressed incredulity. Red Hood had given the spiel once, but it still seemed to shock most of them that he followed through with his rules—had _deigned _to expose a vulnerability—while unrelentingly punishing to the infractors, euthanizing the mad dogs that Black Mask employed and any other bastard running wild in the streets. 

Dispersing the rest of his band of merry men with a tilt of his head, he gave one last look at the stash house, at its stained walls and dirty furniture, the bodies left behind. There was no point in cleaning up after themselves; cutting the oven's gas line open to leak into the air, Red Hood kicked over a jerry can and watched it mingle with the blood on the floor, giving it time to spread out before he lit a match and dropped it. Not bothering to watch the whole house go up in flame, he joined the rest of his men outside.

Just as he ducked into the cab of the moving truck, the main floor windows on the house burst out, and the inferno turned in on itself and curled upwards, lapping at the second floor despite the heavy rain. All it made Red Hood want was a cigarette.

“Move out, boys. We got ourselves a long night ahead.” The sound of the modulator still visibly disturbed them, it was incongruous with what they would see him do on any given night, and the unpredictability only worked in his favour. They jumped when it interrupted their trance as they watched the fire rise. Red Hood smirked. “You know what to do.”

His remaining men hopped into the back of the moving van, dropping the door and bolting it shut. Rolling up the window, his third, Elliot Li, climbed into the driver’s seat and sped off, passing three cop cars and two fire trucks by the time they were eight blocks away. They weren’t thinking to look at a U-Haul going the speed limit, and they passed without incident.

_ Oh, if only they knew what was in the back. _

They’d have more than the GCPD coming after their asses when Black Mask found out, but that was part of the fucking point. 

“Take us back to base,” Red Hood said, pulling out an old flip phone from his pocket and dialling. Only seeing Elliot’s nod in the corner of his eye, he listened to the line ring.

_ “Hello?” _ a woman said, sounding bored.

_ Brenda Sheppard. _

Red Hood had left no stone unturned with these fuckers, which they were gonna find out the hard way, but it was best they found that out later.

“Put your boss on the line.”

The unnatural pitch of his voice was enough. It wasn’t your everyday whack-job that sounded like a Darth Vader rip-off. The woman asked no questions, gave no gasps of surprise and her voice was calm._ “One minute.” _

Listening to the Muzak as Elliot left the Narrows for Crime Alley, Red Hood’s own territory, they headed for one of his many safe houses, the street lights dim and puddles deep as the rain tried its hardest to drown them with the downpour.

_ “Yeah?” _came the voice of a man.

_ Roman Sionis. _

It was late, but Red Hood knew Roman had been putting in a lot of long nights at Janus Cosmetics. The police hadn’t busted him yet—probably hadn’t even identified him—but they were also hesitant to torture the mid-level pieces of shit they arrested. Red Hood had no such qualms. He knew Black Mask didn’t either.

“Hello.” He sounded friendly, borderline chipper, and maybe he was. The blood humming in his veins told a different story than one of calm. It only got worse when he thought of the scared faces of the kids in the basement. The smell of terror. “Do you prefer I call you Black Mask?... Mr. Mask?… Blackie? No, wait—that sounds racist, scratch that one.” 

There was sighing on the other end of the line, and Red Hood was sure there were rolling eyes to accompany it. _ “Just talk. I’m listening. But when I say ‘I’m listening,’ that also means I’m thinking about killing you.” _

He grinned, draping an arm over the back of the middle seat and pushing his hood back to brush a gloved hand through his hair. “That’s not really a great way to begin our relationship,” he said, keeping the glib tone. 

_ “You’d be buying me dinner and taking me out somewhere nice before trying to fuck me blind if that’s what you were after.” _

Despite his words, Black Mask didn’t sound particularly angry or even frustrated. Red Hood’s smile grew, but it was all bared teeth.

_ This fucker wants to dance. _

_ “How you’d get this number anyway?” _ Black Mask asked. Instead of waiting for the answer, more pertinent questions seemed to jump to mind. _ “Did you fry my shipment?” _

He couldn’t blame Black Mask’s line of thinking. He had set most of his other shipments on fire. Outside Black Mask’s clubs, blowing up his operations like he had at the Gotham Docks, and now in his own damn stash houses. But that depended on the shipment Black Mask was referring to.

“Some, yeah. Some of it walked away.”

If Red Hood could have made a wish right at that moment, it would’ve been to peel Black Mask’s face off with a damned spoon. 

_ “I take it you took something.” _

For his first time talking to the man on the phone, Red Hood had really expected Black Mask to have more… fire. Vigour. Some goddamn _emotion_. Hatred, annoyance, vehemence—anything in the goddamn dictionary under _royally-pissed-right-the-fuck-off, _but he sounded like he was negotiating a laundry bill.

“I did. I think it’s the top-shelf items.”

_ “Which crate?” _

“I don’t have the manifest, but…” Now Red Hood just felt like being coy. It could be more fun that way, and he needed some of that. “It’s the one filled with those canisters with the chimera viruses—you know, the _biohazardous _stuff. Oh, and the full shipment of RPGs.”

He didn’t believe Black Mask was stupid enough to bomb and plague his own city—he wanted territory and people to rule over, after all—but the buyers he had overseas sure as fuck would want what he was selling. 

_ “Yeah… I’m gonna need that.” _

“Oh, I bet you do. Be hard to maintain that little site of yours without it.”

A beat of silence passed. 

_ “I suppose there’s just no persuading you to give it back?” _ Black Mask inquired, voice still all calm and cool and fucking collected.

He scoffed. “Your definition of persuasion being what?”

Black Mask chuckled, and he could hear shifting—a chair creaking—on the other end. _ “For one, I don’t kill you. For two, I don’t kill you.” _

_ And I thought my role in all this was the smartass. _

“How generous of you.”

_ “Three, you can have a job. Come work for me.” _

Before Red Hood could even laugh, he was beaten to the punch. The woman—Brenda—sounded outraged and apparently didn’t have any hesitations of showing it. “_Oh, you have got to be fucking_ kidding _me—”_

_ “For the love of Christ, woman—would you _ shut up—”

_ Did I just… step onto Family Feud or something? Wait… would that make me Steve Harvey? Jesus fuck. _

“I don’t want to work for you,” Red Hood interrupted. The last thing he wanted at that moment was to listen to their bickering. This call served a purpose, just like everything else.

The squabbling on the other end stopped with a growl that betrayed how Roman was actually feeling about the situation. _ “What _ do _ you want?” _

_ Now we’re on track. _

“A tremendous amount of money.”

Another beat of silence. 

_ “How much?” _

Now Red Hood was speaking his language. Money was all that people like Black Mask understood, and he didn’t realize that what he thought was his greatest strength would be what undid him.

“Fifty million dollars.”

“Fifty? _ What, are you trying to budget a movie?” _Black Mask asked, sounding more and more riled up. That’s just what Red Hood wanted, too—harder to be rational when all you can think about is murder. 

“Fifty?! _ Is he insane? _ _Are_ you?!” Brenda interrupted again.

The sounds on the other end of the line muffled for a moment, but it didn’t cover up the heated barbs thrown between Brenda and Black Mask. As entertaining as all this was for Red Hood, he grew tired.

_ “Oh my—look, pal. Believe it or not, I don’t have that kind of cash just lying about.” _

“Do an e-transfer.”

The man on the other end growled. _ “That kind of traffic will send too many red flags. I can do four million cash today and you get a transfer of another ten.” _

“I’m sure I can get buyers to meet my price.”

Red Hood didn’t want the money—he had no use for it. Sure, it could buy him a few more guns, maybe an armoured vehicle or two, but that missed the point. Men like Black Mask couldn’t see beyond the profit line and the power he thought it bought them. Red Hood wasn’t playing to just take Black Mask’s king, he wanted to dominate the whole board. 

_ “I’m sure there’re hippos who can paint houses, but I sure as fuck ain’t seen one.” _

Pretending to consider for a moment, he said, “Deal. I’ll call in an hour with a location.”

Not waiting for an answer, he clapped the phone shut as Elliot picked up speed. They were close. Once the cargo was unloaded, it would be time to engage. Red Hood would be able to start his tally again, ticking off how many pieces of shit offset the innocent he was avenging. Black Mask wouldn’t know what hit him. 

_ But he will soon. _

* * *

Roman Sionis sat, cell phone still in hand, and tried very hard not to throw the nearest person out the goddamn _window. _

_ Hood really wants to start a war, huh? _

He finally had enough. His empire had a short reign in comparison to the older crime families, but his expansion into every criminal industry was unprecedented. He couldn’t find enough money launderers in the city to wash his cash fast enough, so he could let the first few incidents slide. Missing a couple of shipments, a few hench-idiots killed here and there, chump change pilfered every once in a while—that was manageable. 

Now the bastard had upgraded from rat status to a wild dog, and it was time to give the moron what he was asking for. 

“I need you to run an errand.”

A grunt answered him, and Black Mask made himself remain calm. His very real anger was threatening to spill over, but he’d vent his frustrations later. He’d make someone hurt. It wasn’t likely he’d get to do anything to Red Hood tonight—but using proxies worked just fine. 

“I don’t ‘run errands’ for you,” Two-Face said, staring at The Gotham Times and not even looking Roman’s way. He still didn’t miss the snarl and the way Two-Face’s body stiffened. 

_ Workin’ with a bunch of fuckin’ children. Christ on high. _

“I know. I was being sarcastic, won’t make that mistake again,” he said dryly. Brenda sat at the opposite end of the room, glaring daggers at him. He ignored her. “I’d _really _like you to go kill this guy and get me my shit back. Can you swing that?”

Two-Face put the paper aside and stared at Roman, deliberating. He’d hired Two-Face as an advisor, an inside man, but he was more sensible than the vast majority of the men in his employ. He’d been radiating pent-up violence for days now, and Roman saw no reason not to let him get it out of his system. 

Two-Face seemed to agree. 

“I can swing that.”

“Bless.” Roman stood and faced the window to stare out at Gotham, stretching his spine and rubbing at the thick five o’clock shadow he desperately needed to shave. “What a day. I woke up in such a great mood, too. Fucking punk-ass little bastards, running around…” he muttered, trailing off as he stared at his reflection. 

“Careful, Roman. You sound like an old man,” Brenda said from across the room. She was pouting, but she’d get over it. She might be small, but the woman was a goddamn firecracker. The methods she wanted to use to eradicate their Red Hood problem surprised him, but he didn’t want to entertain it until it was a last resort. 

“Good thing no one asked you,” he snarked, but it was missing most of its bite. “Set a bounty—two million dead and four million alive. Make it live an hour after the meet, just in case.” 

“Are you _kidding me? _How much money do you want to piss away—” 

_ “No one asked you.” _

He might not have been threatening before, but there was nothing in his voice that gave room to argue. One more word out of her mouth and he was ready to shoot her in the head. Brenda knew it, too. She’d been around long enough to know how hard she could push. Biting her tongue, she sat down again and stared at the wall. 

Addressing Two-Face, who had looked on at the exchange with detached interest, Roman said, “Get my shit back and kill him. By any means necessary.” He cracked his neck, eager to hear someone scream for a while. He was pretty sure he had a couple of whores no one would miss around somewhere. “Don’t let me down.” 

Looking at Two-Face grin was like watching the dead reanimate, and it was enough to temporarily ease Black Mask’s own thirst for carnage when he could just stare at it right in front of him. 

“You got it.” 

* * *

Red Hood had never lived anywhere else for long besides Gotham, but he was still endlessly surprised at just how many dank, rat-infested holes the city had. The brick buildings loomed large over him, and not even the street lights were strong enough to break through the thick blanket of black. 

“Is… is this the best way to do this?” one man asked. It came from the opening of the alley. Red Hood’s muscles tensed, getting ready for the coming fight. 

“Shut up,” another man replied, coming closer. When he peeked around the corner, he saw the briefcase in the man’s hand and counted nine others with him.

“I’m just saying… it’s not like we’re coming in stealthy, we’re kind of exposed.”

It was true. They were exposed. Anyone could drive up behind them and shoot them in the back, or drop something from above. Red Hood wasn’t planning on doing any of those things, but that was beside the point. Despite the building adrenaline, Red Hood didn’t feel afraid. His soldiers were around the corner, guns ready. When it descended into a firefight, Red Hood was going to win. 

“Then I guess you might die,” the second man said blithely, shrugging and continuing forward. 

“They aren’t the only ones.” Black Mask’s men stopped, straining to see as Red Hood walked from around the corner. When he got a look at who was leading them, he whistled low. “Jesus. They weren’t kidding when they said you were on the extra-crispy side.” 

Harvey Dent—or, _ Two-Face _—bristled but said nothing, not taking the bait. His face was already fixed in a permanent sneer because of the gnarled scars, and looking at them was enough to make Red Hood’s left side ache. 

“We have your money. Give us the shipment and we’ll do the transfer,” Two-Face said. He seemed calm enough. But the men next to him weren’t. 

Red Hood laughed, the sound low and menacing. “That’s cute. We’re all going through the motions. Tell me, is that actually four million? Or is just the top layer cash and the rest is Monopoly money?” 

Two-Face smiled and chuckled in return. “It’s actually six inches of The Gotham Times.” 

He noticed that Two-Face was flipping something in his hand—from the sound it made, it was metallic. He tossed it high and caught it. Before Red Hood could come up with a rejoinder, Two-Face pulled out his revolver and fired the first shot. 

The alley lit up, screams and falling bodies barely audible over the constant gunfire. Two-Face had dodged into a small alcove for cover, shooting between the pauses of changing magazines. Red Hood’s men joined in, taking cover behind the barricades they had set up ahead of time and hitting Black Mask’s men one after another. 

“Keep shooting until he’s dead,” Two-Faced yelled. By Red Hood’s count, there were only three targets left. 

“Sounds like a plan,” one of the men replied right before Red Hood shot him in the shoulder. 

His smarmy laugh was audible even over the rapid shots. “I have another.”

The little blinking red dot was the only warning Two-Face was given. Pulling up the remote control, he hit the kill switch, detonating the claymores they had aimed right at the mouth of the alley. The shrapnel and metal balls shot out, downing the men who hadn’t managed to get to the street in time. After the ringing abated, the alley went quiet, the sounds from the street very far away.

The fight was over. Red Hood had won. 

Stepping out, he walked towards the men bleeding out on the ground, footfalls slow and deliberate. He didn’t enjoy the aftermath—killing was something he was good at, not something he ever liked—but sometimes there wasn't a choice at all. 

That's what he had to keep telling himself. 

A bitter taste filled his mouth as he walked over the bodies. Some were still alive and others dead where they lay. He ignored all of them. If Two-Face was there, that meant Black Mask had hired him. Giving cursory glances at the bodies, he searched for the half-burned man. Stooping down, he flipped one of them over. 

_ Not him. _

Straightening, his body lit up with liquid fire as a loud shot rang out, bouncing off the brick walls. Rolling to the side and just barely getting to cover, Red Hood collapsed. Retaliation shots and yelling filled the alley, but he couldn’t hear any of them. His brain struggled to think, to process what instinct was telling him. 

_ He shot me. The bastard _shot _me. _

The bullet had gone clear through the muscle of his right flank, and it was bleeding. Badly. 

_ “Shit _ —fuck—god- _ fucking _-damnit—”

The sounds couldn’t break through, but the flashing blue and red lights did. 

_ Move, soldier— _ move. 

Grunting and gritting his teeth, he made himself stand. He wouldn’t die here. He wouldn’t get caught. _ He wouldn’t. _

“Until next time, kid,” Two-Face called out, but Red Hood ignored him. 

“Hood—” 

Tommy reached him, moving as if to wrap his arm around her shoulders. He pulled away, keeping his breathing in check even if it felt like he couldn’t get enough air. The edges of his vision blurred and he gave himself a shake. 

_ Later. Deal with it later. _

“Scatter. We’ll rendezvous tomorrow. Lay low,” he said, sounding stronger than he felt. His hand clamped against his side, feeling how bad it was. From what he could tell, it only went through the muscle, but there was no way in hell he could go to a hospital. 

“Sir, you’re bleeding, you can’t—”

He shoved her towards the others and growled,_ “Go.” _

Giving one last look, she listened, running with the rest. Yelling came from the mouth of the alley, and Red Hood half ran, half limped his way to his motorcycle. He needed to make his brain work, even if it was drowning in mud. The closest safehouse was Chinatown, he knew he had medical supplies there, and—

_ "Freeze!" _

Now panic found him. They had their guns raised, and Red Hood let instinct take over.

"On your knees and raise your hands or we will fire on you!"

_ Fucking hell. _

Revving the engine, Red Hood ripped out of the alley and onto the street. The cops were yelling, cars ripped into reverse and tires squealed against the pavement.

He needed to be faster. He could outrun them better on a bike than the van could. His only worry would be if Batman decided to show up—he was in no condition to fight him like this. Ripping into the oncoming lane, he wove in and out of the stream of night traffic. Horns blasted, brakes screeched as the cars swerved to avoid him. 

_ Fuck, fuck, fuck— _

He had run away from the police more than once in his life, but he hadn’t been shot then. Leaving the road entirely, he sped down the branching alleyways. The squad cars kept going—they’d be looking to pin him in and outflank him.

Not watching to see if there would be any oncoming cars, he sped out of the mouths of the alleys, across the road and narrowly getting nailed in every direction, and raced across the street. The sirens were more distant, but they weren’t gone. 

_ Almost there. _

Once he was out of view of the street, he turned off the bike and killed the lights. It was agony to push the bike, the muscles screaming at him and the blood loss nearly making him fall, but he made it to the shuttered metal door that led to the safe house. 

The sound of sirens was close again, almost on top of him. 

_ C’mon, c’mon— _

Getting the door open just high enough to clear the bike, he shoved it inside without caring when it fell on its side and rolled underneath. He closed it just in time—the squad cars raced past, still searching. 

_ “Jesus. _ Fucking hell.” 

He shivered with cold and warm blood seeped through his fingers. The hole needed to get patched—even if it was just temporary—and he needed to leave before they started doing a grid search. Having ten dead men in an alley would necessitate a manhunt. 

“Shit. You goddamn _ fucking _idiot.” Clearly, he needed to recalibrate. This couldn’t be how he won the war—either he would die before he finished or he’d be in handcuffs. It was time to stop playing tit-for-tat. “This ain’t the time to be fair.” 

_ Nothing makes me angrier than a fucking bullet in the side. _

He might have won the battle, but that didn’t mean he’d win the war. That wasn’t a possibility he willingly entertained. Black Mask needed to be the first to fall—he couldn’t get the rest unless he was gone. Red Hood wouldn’t just take the proverbial gloves off. He’d go scorched earth and bring the fight to them. 

They’d know to expect him, but they wouldn’t see him coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a bit late, but I hope you enjoyed the chapter! The other two parts of the holiday fic _A Not So Wonderful Life_ will be coming out tomorrow and maybe Boxing Day. I've been sleeping so much I haven't been on time for much of anything 😅. I hope you're all having some quiet moments and eating lots of good food! ❤


	11. Under the Sun

It's when the waitress remembers my name that I realize how absolutely _nuts _this is. 

“Why are you here, Miri?” I chide under my breath, head in my hands as I breathe in the freshly cooked waffles and burnt coffee wafting from the diner counter. This is my third time here in as many days, and I don’t even really know what I’m doing, what I’m expecting. 

"You want a top-up, Adina?" Maria asks, nodding towards my cup of tea. I've been sitting here for hours at a time, doing work that doesn't require the internet for much, and just as they learned my name, I learned theirs. I shake my head, smiling like I mean it and picking at the plate of waffles in front of me with a fork, eating small bits of the strawberries on top. "Alright, just shout if you need something." 

Once she's out of earshot, I sigh, feeling especially pathetic. 

_You could just call. You know, like a normal person. _

But what am I supposed to say? _Hey, Jason, sorry for trying to jump your bones like that. I don’t have issues, promise!_

I groan, digging my fingers into my temples like it'll get rid of the headache I've given myself. 

_Fucking hell—it sounds bad enough in my head, speaking it out loud would kill me. _

It was a longshot in the first place, waiting around at regular eating times to see if he’d show up. What was I even imagining? A _meet-cute _situation? For this to seem genuine rather than a stalker origin-story? 

_Idiot. You’re an idiot. _

Ignoring the knots in my stomach, I force down the waffles and remainder of my tea. I told myself this would be the last day, that I’d either grow a spine and call to apologize or leave it. Guilt overshadows both choices. 

Placing two twenties on the counter and waving in thanks to Maria and the cook, Sam, I pull up my jacket hood and head out into the rain. Almost every day in Gotham is miserable, but it seems to take on a new meaning this year. I can’t remember a spring where it rained this heavily, and the brief spots of sun every few days make what greenery Gotham possesses grow at an intense rate. It makes the entire city smell like garbage cans left out for too long. Gotham might be cleaning up its act after what happened—or, at least they’re trying to—but the city doesn’t seem to want to let go of the filth and mud as readily, not even when there’s an offering of providence to wash it all away. 

Keeping my head down as I’m pelted with rain and going around the block, someone knocks into my shoulder. I twist away quickly—expecting to see Jack Ryder or a disgruntled stranger—but my mouth falls open. 

_“Babba?” _

I bite my tongue, angry that even after everything that happened, I can’t seem to call him _Jahan _to his face, falling back on a term of endearment he doesn’t deserve.

His eyes widen in surprise, taking in my face and pushing his own hood back. _“Habibti?” _he breathes, almost like he doesn’t think I’m real. 

I recover before he does, glancing up and down the street in search of his entourage, but I don’t see any other discernible Arabs. 

_Since when does a crime boss walk alone in Gotham in the rain? _

The bitter memory of the last time we talked leaves a bad taste in my mouth, but I can’t make myself feel angry with him for long. He looks worse than he did eighteen months ago—leaning heavily on a cane, face gaunt and skin ashen. Thick lines of silver mix with the black of his hair, but it’s his eyes that strike me most. Jahan looks afraid. 

“Why are you here?” I ask, making myself stand my ground and speak rather than run. It isn’t long until I start fidgeting. 

“I—” He cuts himself off, shooting a glance at his wristwatch and then over his shoulder. “I have a meeting.” His accent’s still thick, carrying that lilt I never had the chance to emulate. 

“What, can’t afford a driver anymore?” Failing to keep the snark out my voice, I avoid his eyes. He’s another person who didn’t call after what happened, when I moved, not even after I was in the hospital the last time recovering from surgery. Nothing. But I shouldn’t be surprised by that, either. 

_Setting yourself up for disappointment, Miri. Best to expect nothing at all, isn’t it? _

“You changed your hair.” 

My head snaps up, and Jahan looks… _emotional. _This is not an expression I’ve ever seen on his face—not that I could ever remember. The fact that he noticed shakes me, and my hand gently pulls on a lock, as if to confirm his words. 

“Ah—yeah. A while ago, I guess.” 

He nods, looking down like I just had. Our feet shift, splashing the shallow pools of water enveloping the sidewalk. Punching him would be easier than this, but my body feels heavy, tired. 

“Maryam—_Miriam,” _he shakes his head with the correction, still not looking at me, “I—”

_‘I’m sorry.’ _

That’s what it sounded like he was going to say, but it’s like he doesn’t know _how_ to say it, like it might not be something he ever learned. He's visibly different from before—not just physically. I felt no temptation to pilfer his digital life again after I saw him in the Amaseena—which I now realize is only five blocks from here—but I don’t need that, either, to tell me this is a different man. I’m not the only one who changed. 

“I… You shouldn’t be on the street_.” _I don’t know why I say that—he shouldn’t be out here, he’s on several police watchlists and I’m certain that any rival gang worth their salt would be itching for the chance to put him down—but what do you say to someone who shares half your blood yet might as well be a complete stranger? “I—I have a car, I can… drive you, if you want.” 

Heat burns my chest, and I don’t know why I offered that, either. Thinking of him brings the memory of buying that gun—the arcade, trying to save Parker and failing, how it felt when a bullet tore through my side. But, even still, the desire to take the words back doesn’t come—I mean it when I didn’t think I would. He seems just as surprised by it as I am. 

“You look stronger now, _habibti.”_

Where is my father’s anger? Where is his spite, the pride that defined him in my mind? I don’t recognize this man in front of me, the one filling my chest with something other than resignation and hate. 

It hurts more than I thought it would. 

“You’re a lion, but you did it all without me, eh?” 

His words hit deep, evoking a memory I wanted to leave with everything else. I think of the hot sand under my fingers, the feeling of rough cotton against my skin, the curls wrapping around his ears. When he grins, I see a ghost of who I knew as a six-year-old girl—a man who shone like the sun, the one who could make me feel special with a smile and the smallest bit of attention. Those glances were rare, and yet they’re what I remember him most by. 

“No, I’m not a lion.” I don’t know what I am, but it isn’t that. I feel… vicious, sometimes. Savage. Confused. Damaged. But not strong; not fierce. 

He laughs through his nose, sardonic and quiet. "Maybe not, _habibti, _but perhaps you're more _djinn _than I ever was." 

"What does that mean?" The cold chill from the wet spring air finally seeps in, and the shaking travels up until I'm vibrating. 

Shifting again, he looks away—like facing me is too much for him. "It took me twenty years to realize that… _ya Allah.” _Digging in his pocket, he pulls out a pack of cigarettes. Shielding it from the rain with his hand after he puts a stick in his mouth, the flame lights as he glances over his shoulder again.

“Realize what?” 

I shouldn’t ask, I still don't know if I want the answer—and self-reflection isn’t something my father’s ever been good at—but what do I really know besides what Mom told me and the bits and pieces I remember as a child, what I gleaned from the news? 

Jahan finally meets my gaze, and it almost looks rueful and I don’t know why. _“Djinn _outlast the world of men even if they are part of it. You already showed that, didn’t you?” 

_What’s he implying? _

“No, _babba, _you’re wrong again.” 

I shake my head, unsure of where he’s going with this and rebelling against the idea that he’s trying to somehow impart revelations or words of parental wisdom—and I don’t even know for what. Why say this now, why acknowledge me after years of purposeful forgetting? 

_Then why won’t you walk away? _

I should, and yet it’s like when I was little again—drawn into my father’s world, still searching for that sun to gravitate toward. But there’s another sun now—one that's hidden but still drags me closer, singes the edges of my being. There are no buffers between me and it—_him._ It’ll corrode, even from a distance, and I don’t know how to protect myself from it. I laugh, hard and biting, at the realization that I had compared _him _to _djinn _once, too. 

_‘So _different_, but the same in _all _the ways that matter.’_

_Maybe he was right; maybe we aren’t so different. _

_No_—I shake the thought out of my head. I’m _not _like him. 

_You're not. _

Then why does it feel like I’m lying? 

“I’m no _jinniyah_. I met one of those—a _djinni, _and he wasn’t like you or me. Didn’t you tell me about _majnun, _once? Seems more fitting, really.”

_Majnun. _‘Crazy’, ‘insane’. It also means _possessed by a djinni. _It’s at its worst when my body feels like it belongs to a stranger, when my mind betrays and cripples me, when my dreams aren’t my own. They feel shared—something that used to be familiar but has changed into something I haven’t found the key to understanding. 

_“Djinn _are not good or evil, they just… _are,” _Jahan says, taking a long drag from his cigarette. Rain trails down my nose and I resist the urge to wipe it away. “Capable of great and terrible things, yes, but they are neutral, following no plan but their own.”

I stare at him with blank confusion. Did he not choose that name to inspire fear in others, to adopt the visage and power of ghouls? “Didn’t… didn’t you say they were ‘beings wreathed in smokeless flame’? A—a demon or—”

“No, no. _Djinn, _they… what is the word…” He trails off again, but I find myself aching to hear the rest. Where is this coming from, what’s prompted the change? Seeing fear and sadness on his face is never something my mind could conjure before. “They _oscillate_. They are not static, bound to one nature. We just do not understand them—they lie outside of that.” 

His words shake me, rattle my body like a blow. How do Jahan’s words seem to fit more than what I had originally applied to _him_ back at Garcia’s house? Mercurial, capable of embodying dual natures while never bowing to either, lying beyond our ability to rationalize; everything about how I conceptualize him, firmly placing him in the category of pure, unadulterated evil—was that ever entirely right? 

_You have the scars and nightmares to prove it. There's a small graveyard's worth of the dead that he's responsible for. He _is _evil. He is. _

Isn’t he? But am I not also culpable in that? 

“Then why—”

“Adina?”

The voice behind me stops the words in my throat. I know it, but outside of the diner, I’m unprepared as to what to say. Turning, it feels like I’m caught in a glitch—phasing back and forth between the confusion and pain of my father with the guilt and shame wrapped up in what I’ve been avoiding. 

“Jason—what… what are you doing here?” I stutter, trying to smile, but it twitches into a grimace. 

Motorcycle parked beside him and helmet under his arm, Jason looks at us with curiosity. The timing couldn't have been worse—why did today have to be the day where my problems coalesced? 

“Well, by now you know I have a kink for waffles, so there’s that.” He nods to where I came from, the direction of the diner. “Been a few days and my waffle skills aren't up to par.”

_Of all the goddamn times he decides to show up… _

The complete lack of judgement or apprehension and Jason's half-smile make it hard to think. Unable to master my expression, I turn away, panicking about how the hell I explain who Jahan is, and I'm pissed that he's staring between the two of us with poorly hidden bemusement. The look on his face from before never leaves. Cars zip down the road, splashing our shoes and pants as the tires hit the potholes full of water. 

_What if Jahan says your name? Your _real _name? How the fuck do you explain that then? Why are you so _fucking _stupid— _

But I need to say _something, _“Um, this is—”

“I am Adina’s uncle, Ibrahim,” Jahan interjects, moving past me and extending his hand toward Jason. He stares at Jahan, hesitating for a moment before shaking his hand and smiling. I’d be relieved if it didn’t look forced. “Don’t worry, I was just leaving. I’m… I’m late as it is.” 

_Why did he lie? _

Seeing that Jahan had the awareness to not only use my middle name, but also refrain from identifying himself as my father steals my voice from me. Whatever I was going to say washes away with the rain, and that feeling of being a child again returns. 

“Pleasure.” 

Jason’s voice is cordial enough, but something in his face is strained, manifesting in the tense muscles in his jaw, the jumping tendon at his jugular. He stares at me out of the corner of his eye, and I look everywhere but at him—searching the sidewalks for eavesdroppers, scouting for the best exit routes, and debating whether it would be easier to throw myself in front of a car and avoid outing myself as a goddamn liar. 

Jahan looks from Jason to me again, and something… I don’t know how to name it—it’s the same look I’d see on Alfred’s face when Parker and I would hang out at the Manor, when he’d laugh when he saw Parker tease me. It’s… _fatherly. _A knowing look he shouldn’t be able to give. The sight of it feels like a betrayal, like something Jahan never earned to express but I’m happy he is anyway. 

Where is my own hatred, where is _my_ anger? He’s another man who did nothing—who knew what was happening to me, knew _what _was coming, and left me to die anyway. He left me to be tortured, nearly raped—he left me to _suffer_, and I'm still looking for someone to blame. Maybe it’s because I reached a tentative truce with Bruce—because I've finally loosened my grasp on one string of hate that the entire tapestry is coming undone—but I feel lost without its comforting embrace, the notched teeth that dug into my skin as I gripped it for dear life. 

Jahan doesn't smile, doesn't try to hug me goodbye. When he left after Mom gave him the ultimatum, he winked and smiled, filled me with promises that he'd be back. Today he has the decency not to lie. The fear in his face ebbs, replaced with something I recognize as resignation. 

_“Fi Amanillah,_ _habibti_.”

Unable to find the words to reply, I watch him leave in silence. My fingers go numb, and memories overlap with reality. I can't decide if this—talking with him, not giving him the middle finger and storming off—is something I'll add to my never-ending list of regrets. 

“You look a lot alike.” I glance up at Jason, remembering that not all my problems disappeared with Jahan. It's true—I look like a much younger version of him, but I barely recognize him just like I can barely recognize myself. Jason starts to stutter, rubbing the back of his neck when I don't reply, but winces in pain and drops his arm down. “Well, I mean, you’re _clearly _prettier—goddamnit.” 

A laugh bursts out and I don't know why. It dies quickly, but it's enough to make Jason smirk. I'm reminded of the last time I apologized to someone like this—but I don't have flowers and pink Pop-Rocks this time. I'm just soaked and broken, offering nothing to try and repair what I will always inevitably damage. 

Sometimes I can convince myself, when it's quiet and I'm half-asleep, that Parker isn't really gone, that he's just waiting for me at his parents’ house, listening to music too loud and goofing around on his computer, to come and say _I'm sorry. _It’s like I can feel him now, nudging me still to be different—to be _better—_even when all I want to do is run very far away. 

_Don't leave things like this, Miri. Take a deep breath._

Despite the silent repetitions, the words still tumble out of my mouth. “I—it’s… I’m glad I ran into you.”

Why do I have to sound so _bashful—_so goddamn idiotic? It's like my tongue is twisted in my mouth, the blood rushing to my head speeding up time and making me clumsy. I'm surprised when he smiles. 

“I mean, it’s more like _I _ran into _you. _A happy coincidence, right? I was thinking you ghosted me._” _He’s chuckling, but I hear what he isn’t saying aloud: I _really _screwed up. 

“No—I… I should’ve called, but I—” 

_But I _what?

The tongue-tied feeling intensifies, foreign and belonging to a time when things were good, when there was still the chance to go back and do things differently. It doesn't belong here—I don't get to feel these things. 

I struggle to find the right words, still rattled by talking with Jahan, and Jason reaches up and slowly pulls my hood up a little more so it covers my hair. “Hey, you’re soaked. C’mon, I’ll buy you a hot chocolate or something," he says, nodding in the direction of the diner. 

“You don’t—don’t have to do that.”

_Jesus—how are you supposed to tell him you were waiting out for three days to see if he'd show up? _

“I want to.” He's smiling widely, motioning like he's going to put his arm around me when he seems to think better of it, letting out a small hiss when his arm goes too high, and shoves his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket instead. “So, you wanna tell me what happened to your face?” 

“Huh?”

It takes me a minute to understand his meaning when he points to his own face; it’s the same area I have that bruise on my jaw. It's only been a few days, and it's gone green with blotches of purple, and no amount of foundation makes it disappear completely. I touch it self-consciously, struggling to come up with another lie and hating myself a little more. 

“Your makeup’s good, but not that good." He cocks a brow and I struggle to meet his eye. “I know what the aftermath of getting sucker-punched looks like," he says when I laugh awkwardly, waving my hand to dismiss it without having to explain. The look on his face tells me I’m just not that convincing. 

When I started working for Naomi, I had to have a crash course on a lot of things—how to drive, how to properly shoot a gun, how to understand bullshit governmental hierarchies—but what she emphasized the most was keeping the details of what I do to myself; protecting _state secrets_ and all that. There wouldn't be any repeated mistake of telling anyone things they shouldn't know ever again. Part of that was learning how to blend lies with truth. 

“I do kickboxing. Me and another girl were sparring—I didn’t have my guard up and she clipped me.” None of that was a lie—it just didn’t cause _this _specific one. “I bruise easy," I add, shrugging. “What about you?” 

He looks at me with confusion and cocks an eyebrow. “What about me?” 

“Why are you wincing?” 

He slows for a minute before resuming his pace and smiles. But now _I’m_ the one who’s not convinced. “Workplace injury. Cracked a rib when I fell off some scaffolding.” My mouth drops open, ready to give him some misplaced lecture on safety when he throws up a hand. “Nah, I know—a real dumbass move. Should’ve had my harness on. I’ll be feeling it for a while, but nothin’ permanent, sunshine.” 

It's the only reply he seems willing to give, so I drop it, uneager to stay on the topic of injuries when we can both tell the other isn’t being forthcoming. 

Maria and Sam smile as we enter the diner, giving me knowing looks and raised eyebrows that make me want to melt into the floor and disappear. We find a quiet booth in the back corner, and my jaw locks up, trapping the words I need to say in the maze of thoughts my mind's created. 

_This would be easier if you had two or three glasses of something… _

No, it wouldn't be—I'd just make this even worse. I shove the urge to drink out of my mind; dealing with that on top of everything else is a recipe to spiral. 

_Breathe then—you can't freak out like you did last time. _

But, just like with everything else, that's easier said than done. I flinch back when something dark comes closer in the corner of my eye, hand going up to block anything incoming. It takes an unreasonable amount of time to fight my brain and see it's just Jason extending his jacket towards me. 

“You’re shivering, take it.” 

He extends it again, slower this time, and it's not until he says it that I notice how the cold has clung to me, but I shake my head and wave the jacket away. Having him be _doting _of all things after what I did makes my side ache. 

“I’m fine—really.” 

He rolls his eyes, trying to come off as playful. “Or you could just _not _be stubborn. You’re gonna catch a cold—even with all those sweaters on,” he says gesturing to me, and I pull them closer. “I'm not a nurse, and there won’t be any chicken noodle soup coming your way, sunshine, so warm up.” Now he’s chuckling for real and it lightens his face, taking away the shadows from before. 

I laugh, trying to imagine him in a kitchen making soup from scratch. My grin fades as burning fire sears under my skin, but I relent and take his jacket, sitting opposite me at the table. 

Clearing my throat, I take a deep breath. “Jason, I… I wanted to say I’m sorry.” 

Now it’s his turn to wave my words away. His expression keeps changing, and I find myself wanting to just… watch. See how his eyes harden and soften, try to decipher what he’s thinking from the changes in his posture alone. And, right now, I don’t think he wants to talk about what happened, either. 

“You don’t have to say it.” The smile isn’t there, not the real one, even if its ghost still pulls at his lips. 

_Breathe. _

Lions, _djinn, _and revolving images of different versions of my father rotate in my mind. Even as some thoughts change, others stay the same: I don’t want to be like _him_. 

_Just breathe. _

“No—I _need _to. I…” My voice falters but I make myself find it again; I still can’t meet his eyes. “I shouldn’t have acted like that. It was a shitty thing to do, and I… I reacted badly.” 

_Understatement of the year, don’t you think? _

But I still think about kissing him—how he felt… safe to be around. How his lips felt against mine, the warmth of his hands on my waist. “I shouldn’t have… have used you like that.” It makes me burn up for another reason, but it’s all tempered by the knowledge that my selfishness is never far behind—that it warps whatever it touches, that it hurts people when all I ever wanted was to hurt myself. “And I mean it—I’m sorry,” I breathe, finally finding the courage to meet his gaze. 

Jason doesn’t say anything; he just stares, considering me. My knees bounce, my hands try their best to strangle the other, and it’s like a thousand ants are crawling all over my skin, but I don’t move away—I don’t run like I tried to the last time we were here. 

“Punching you in the face, what… what happened last time—I don’t… I don’t even know why you’re still talking to me, honestly.” 

My voice is quiet and riddled with confusion, and I draw into myself like I can make my body shrink. I don’t understand why I… _want _to keep talking with him. Being around me would be enough to wear down anyone—that he’s still here gives me hope that I have no right to feel. 

His arms rest on the table, hands stretching out until they’re half-way across it. They’re loose, relaxed, almost inviting me to take them. 

And I want to. 

“You’ve got issues, yeah—but who doesn’t? Just because you haven’t seen mine doesn’t mean they’re not there.” He grins, flashing a sharp canine, and, once again, my voice leaves me. “If you wanna… I don’t know, keep doing this sort of thing—whatever _this _is—I want it to be because _you _want to. That it’s something good for you and me, not… whatever you were using it for.” 

I went twenty-three years without ever discussing something like this. Fucking hell, I’ve never even really _dated _anyone. Yes—there were… the others. Jason’s right even if he doesn’t know the scope of it—I _was_ using them, those other boys, and I tried using him, too. Do I even know how to do something healthy—is this already doomed to end in disaster? 

_You’ve never really tried. _

Maybe I inherited Mom’s terrible ability to have anything long-term with a partner. Her longest relationship was four years—and, even then, it was on-again-off-again so often that I lost track. The weight of it—him leaving it as a choice, as something _I_ decide to move forward or not—is foreign, and I’m struggling to understand what exactly it is that I _do _want. 

I think of Bruce, Alfred hugging me. That feeling of home, that maybe things don’t have to be so bad. The voices on the edge of my mind are quiet, not intruding to remind me of those deep truths I still haven’t accepted entirely. 

Jason’s hands are still on the table. Slowly, with hesitant motions forwards before drawing back, I place mine down, just touching the back of my fingers against his. “Can we—Jesus, saying _let’s start over_ sounds so cliché, doesn’t it?” I laugh, still feeling hot in the face.

“Yeah, it does.” He smirks playfully and that goddamn feeling of bashfulness returns, making my heart skip in a way that hurts in its unfamiliarity. “But I don’t mind that. Who doesn’t want a reset button in life?” 

Now it’s my turn to stare at him. Everything goes quiet—I don’t hear the clicking of cutlery against plates, glasses sliding along tables, the idle chatter of the few others in the diner or the staticky voices coming from the TV in the corner. His hair’s a little long, almost obscuring the tops of his ears, and his eyes are steady—certain. I don’t know if mine have ever looked like that. Jason still doesn’t move, and I tentatively take his hand in mine, half-expecting him to rip it away, tell me this was a joke and reaffirm all of my worst thoughts, the voice that never really leaves. 

But he doesn’t. Instead, he smiles. It’s like that first night in the rain when he walked me home—entirely genuine in a way I’m not used to seeing. I feel warm, like maybe I was looking for the sun in all the wrong places before and only finding shadow. 

I can’t bear the contact for long—how it’s so different than what I usually invite—and let go, picking up a menu and studying like I didn’t memorize it yesterday. “Have any more waffle recommendations?” I cringe as the words leave my mouth, but he laughs, one hand going to press against his side, and my shoulders relax. 

It’s like the first time we were here together, how he reminded me of Parker, but it doesn’t hurt like it did then—it’s not unwelcome. And, just like before, it feels like I’ve known him longer than I have. Except, this time, I don’t push that feeling, or him, away. 

We talk until the sun goes down, telling stories about our first broken bones as kids and creating hypothetical scenarios of _what would you do_. Our hands stay on the table the whole time, only moving when we’d really get into a joke, gesturing wildly as our enthusiasm grew. He tells me about his sister Izzy, and he smiles in a gentle way I haven’t seen yet. Regret’s there, too, but I know that feeling—familial love and guilt creating something new, something that weighs heavy on the heart. 

Unlike when Parker and I first became friends—when he poured out his secrets and spoke every thought that came into his head—I don’t keep everything to myself. I’m surprised that I _want _to tell Jason things; I want to talk with someone who understands. I tell him about Mom, but never about Bruce or Alfred, editing out their presence—and every other detail that would point to what I’m hiding—would not only show me for being a liar, but being related to a Wayne makes even simple things complicated, and nothing about this is simple. 

* * *

“So, anyway—that’s how I set the oven on fire,” he finishes, his chest rumbling with laughter. 

“I don’t know how you’re still alive with a mouth like that,” I say in between giggles. Maria’s shift ended an hour ago, and Jason and I are among the few left in the diner. The thought of going home to work more on my Black Mask assignment and do more digging into Arkham comes, an insistent nudge in my mind, but I ignore it—just for a while longer. 

“It’s ‘cause I’m a charmer.” He smirks, giving me a purposely bad wink that looks more like a twitch. It renews the giggles again, and I put a hand over my mouth to stem them. Jason gets a mischievous glint in his eye, rubbing his hands together and leaning over the table. “I guess there _was _one time I thought things might end decidedly _bad _for me.” 

“Oh? What, don’t tell me _Jason, The Debonair _said something smart to the wrong person?” I ask, putting a hand over my heart in mock incredulity and mirroring him to lean closer. The smell of his cologne almost makes me forget he’s speaking. 

“It was basic training and we were going over some emergency drills,” he begins, waving a hand in the air as if to paint the scene for me. Resting my chin on my closed fists, I watch with rapt attention, smirking all the while. “The Sarge is listing off all these scenarios—_what do you do if you get shot? Who’s ass do you kiss first on a full moon? What’s the protocol for saving kittens in trees?” _He breaks off laughing. His voice had been deeper and rigid, mocking the unnamed _Sarge, _and I keep myself from joining in just yet. 

“Saving kittens? Who knew the military could be so heroic.” From how my cheeks ache, I’m smiling widely again. I haven’t been able to make myself stop, and I don’t remember the last time I had a moment like this, something that went so long without being marred, and I’m determined for it to last. 

“Of course—what do you think all those howitzers are for?” We both laugh, and he waves a hand, clearing his throat to continue. “Then, he starts asking about safety. _In the case of a fire, what steps would you take?” _

He’s trying not to smile and failing. “And?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“I found out the hard way that, apparently, ‘fucking _large _ones’ wasn’t the right answer.” 

Nobody’s made me laugh this hard since Parker died. A part of my mind’s looking for things to go wrong, for the dark edge to show itself and make me a fool, for my world to cloud over again. It’s what I’ve known for so long that this is its own form of terror—uncharted territory that I never thought I’d be able to travel. 

Jason’s face transforms, and it’s like he’s younger—like the world wasn’t so unkind. When it changes again, it’s like hitting a brick wall—knocking the air out in a different way than our laughter had. Dread creeps in, the voice getting a little louder. 

_"You do realize, don't you, that you did all of that for… _nothing_. It all came back to _nothing.”

His eyes are focused above my head in a far corner. Swallowing hard and pushing back the urgent feeling that I fucked up again—that I really can’t go long without ruining _something, someone—_I look over my shoulder. Jason’s staring at a TV playing the news. Seeing Jack Ryder’s face is enough for rage to burn any joy I felt into cinders, but the banner running below his sycophantic toad-face diverts my anger. 

_JANUS COSMETICS WINS $37 MILLION LAWSUIT OVER ALLEGED CHEMICAL CONTAMINATION. ROMAN SIONIS FILES COUNTERSUIT FOR LIBEL AGAINST— _

I’ve heard of the makeup brand before and never bought it, but why it’s turned Jason into a near paroxysm of wrath confuses me. He looks ready to kill someone, and for the first time, he scares me. Not in a way that makes me want to run, but in a way that’s so familiar. Instead of reminding me of Parker, Jason’s reminding me of someone else. I’ve seen that look before—on _his _face—and something ugly always followed. Death, pain, and agony—that’s what _he _brought. 

“What? Is… is something wrong?” I ask, gritting my teeth when my voice shakes. It’s irrational—being afraid of Jason. He isn’t anything like _him_, he hasn’t hurt me—he wouldn’t. 

_…Right? _

“No, sorry. Just… distracted,” he replies, barely tearing his eyes away to meet mine. When he sees my face his expression changes, turning into a wall of stone and burying the anger behind it. Hints of what’s underneath ripple through, and he can’t keep it from his eyes. They might be blue, but they’re sharp as knives. 

“Alright.” He looked more than distracted; Jason looked _furious_—angry enough to make the hair on my arms rise. Swallowing again, I ask, “Who’s Roman Sionis?” 

A muscle in his neck jumps, and he cracks his knuckles, flexing his fingers like he just hit something hard. I make myself stay in place. “Cosmetic mogul from Chicago. Moved his headquarters here after the Siege, touting some fucking bullshit about rebuilding Midtown.” 

I look at the TV again as they flash a picture of Roman. Brown hair slicked back, a white suit that borders on silver, cold eyes and five o’clock shadow, he’s good-looking in the same way Bruce looks handsome when he’s dappered himself up for public events—suave, charming, but ultimately empty underneath it all. They aren’t showing something real. 

_But why would Jason react like that to him? _

“You don’t like him?” I think of what he told me about his sister, but he didn’t mention anything about chemical burns or personal injury. What other reason would Jason have? 

He shrugs, not looking at me. “He’s a crook, just like the rest of the hypocrites dressed up in Gucci suits. Fucking rich people like him are what’s killing this place.” 

He sounds cold and bitter, unlike anything I’d heard before. Us joking and laughing fades, and Jason’s anger becomes suffocating. I think of my own family—how I come from wealth exactly like what he’s critiquing. I’ve seen what Wayne Enterprises does. Yes, they help—Bruce funds dozens of different shelters, clinics, half-way houses and children’s homes around Gotham, but it was only after everything that happened before that I can see that they funnel the bulk of their money into fighting one fire while neglecting the others. 

“Do you ever think some people deserve to die?” he asks quietly. 

My mind struggles to pull away from that maze again, the mess of images and memories that juggle my meeting with Jahan, my struggle to reconcile Bruce and Batman fully, and Jason’s question is… unsettling. Not in the sense of what he’s inferring, but because I agree. 

“I—I guess it depends.”

The brick wall shakes and electric fire lights up Jason’s body. “On what? You don’t think there are people out there who shouldn’t exist, that need to be dealt with for the good of everyone else?” he snaps. 

The muscles in his arms tense and draw him up, turning him into an image of barely restrained anger. I don’t think he’d unleash it on me, but that familiarity surfaces—it makes me wonder if that’s what I look like when I start to lose control, when my own anger gets the better of me. 

“It’s… not that simple.” But isn’t it? Did I not do one thing of my own conscious, free will back when Gotham was tearing itself apart? “We shouldn’t get to decide that. Not you or me.” My mind flits back to Bruce and his _cause_, to the man in red and the trails of bodies and blood he leaves behind. “Not even vigilantes. They do more harm than good—one person shouldn’t get to decide who gets a bullet and who doesn’t.” 

_Looks like you’re one of the hypocrites. Still a liar, too. _

“Then who does, Adina?” he asks, expression different again. He’s trying to get me to understand, but he doesn’t know that I already do. “The world’s changing and the bastards looking to profit off the suffering of others _deserve _to pay.” 

The bitterness is still there, but so is conviction. I agree with him—but what I used to believe in before is gone. Certainties and clear lines between _right _and _wrong _don’t exist—they’re a moving line in the sand that we tell ourselves is fixed and visible. I want things to be as simple as he’s making them, but I know they’re not. Nothing’s ever simple. _Nothing._

“Won’t ever see me crying that someone’s doing what should’ve been done since the beginning,” he says, jerking his head back to the TV. A shadowy silhouette GCN claims is Red Hood flashes up with a headline about a shoot-out in Crime Alley. Twelve people are dead—all of them have gang ties. Speculation about rising tensions only confirms what I’ve been investigating for Naomi. “The world’s better off when people like that are six feet under.” 

Deep down, I know I don’t entirely believe what I said. When I doxxed all those people—the same ones on trial for incitement and accessory to murder for participating in the voting _he _orchestrated—I _wanted _them to get what they deserved. I _wanted _them to get what was coming—just like I wanted Zsasz to die. Like I still want _him _to. Shit, I even tried to do it myself—shoving a shard of glass in his side, beating him with a pipe just like I did to that man back at the warehouse, almost shooting him in the head—I made every wrong decision and meted out who deserved what based on wrath and vengeance when no one else would do it for me. 

_And look where that got you. _

Jason clears his throat, hiding the dark rage underneath forced casualness. I try to hide my own expression, but I’m not as successful. For the first time, it seems to cross his mind that maybe he went a little too far, revealed too much of himself. “Sorry, sunshine—didn’t mean to get intense there.”

He’s half-smiling in apology, and the nickname brings warmth back to my skin; I draw his jacket closer around me. “It’s alright, Jason.”

I mean it and wish I could tell him why, but I don’t. Stretching my hands out across the table first this time, Jason doesn’t have the same hesitation about taking them in his, and his thumb runs over the back of my knuckles. I shiver for another reason besides being cold. 

He walks me to my car in amiable silence, but the rest of the city is loud. Horns honk, sirens blare, and the quiet I found to focus just on him is left behind in the diner. He’s still holding my hand, and I don’t want him to let go. I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep tonight, and I still can’t decide if I want to. Dreams are still dangerous, even when there’s something good to focus on when I’m awake, but, for the first time in a long while, I don’t have the overwhelming urge to drown them. 

“Goodnight,” I say when we finally get to my car, pushing a frizzy curl behind my ear. It’s like I’m fifteen or something again—some virginal teen in a movie—but I don’t feel angry about it this time, only nervous. My stomach’s flipping and contracting, a source of pain and nausea that I can’t bring myself to find completely unpleasant. “And thank you again for…” I clear my throat and make myself not look away—to take in how the passing headlights sharpen and soften the planes of his face. “Well, thank you for everything.” 

Jason’s not smiling, his entire face serious and his eyes filled with want—but it’s not the same kind I’m used to. It’s hungry, but it’s not looking to devour me; it’s reserved, but it tells me he’s genuine. “Can I kiss you?” he asks. 

My face doesn’t go hot but I still feel warm, starting from my scalp down to my toes. “Yes.” 

He kisses me and it doesn’t feel like it’s part of a dream—it feels entirely real. The pressure of his lips on mine, how his hand goes to my throat, thumb brushing along my jaw—it’s electric; a burning touch my body rises to meet, wanting more. My hands go to his shoulders, giving me a bit of leverage to deepen the kiss. It’s nice—no, more than that—I don’t want it to end. Nothing else comes up, and what I wanted before is finally achieved—the world does stop.

I’m the one to pull away first this time. Our breathing is heavier, and so is the weight of his eyes, but I meant what I said: I won’t push this. His smile is brief, a flash of some private happiness, before it disappears. 

“Can I see you again?” he asks, thumb tracing over my ear, gently pushing back more of the hair that’s fallen from place. 

I try to hold back my own smile that wants to grow, and kiss him quickly on the cheek, letting my lips linger only for a second just above his jaw before drawing away slowly. “Yes,” I breathe, clearing my throat and finally making a choice—of what I want, of what direction to follow to find my own sun. 

When he kisses me again, the world stays quiet, and my mind finds a reprieve it forgot it ever knew. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for tuning back in, everyone, and Happy New Year! I hope you had a great holidays, and if you're still interested in reading the short stories I did for it, you can find it on my profile under _A Not So Wonderful Life._
> 
> I know things are still going slower in terms of the build-up, but I hope you're enjoying things so far ❤. There's still lots of craziness to happen because this is me we're talking about (lol). I'd love to hear what you guys think!
> 
> Just a translation note (if I got anything wrong, please feel free to correct me! Arabic isn't a language I speak and I try my best to research and verify everything, but there are nuances I just won't get without studying from a native speaker): 
> 
> _Fi Amanillah_ means "be with the safety of Allah" or "may Allah protect you." It's usually used (from my understanding) as a more final form of goodbye - when you know you're not going to see the other for a long time or there's going to be a large distance between the speaker and the recipient. 
> 
> _Habibti_ is the feminine form of "beloved." 
> 
> Also - the story Jason has about the safety course comes from an "incorrect quotes" blog that I saw on Tumblr. I tried finding the original source but seem to have no luck - if you know where it's from originally, let me know! It just seemed way too funny to me to not have it included - it makes me giggle way too dang much 😂. And I want to shout-out to minstorai for their kind reviews and the inspiration that I worked into the chapter ❤.
> 
> I'll be back again in a couple of weeks! ❤


	12. Choke

My head isn't where it should be, but, for once, that's not a bad thing. 

Well, it makes my driving more precarious—barely focusing on the darkened road and still feeling pleasantly warm from seeing Jason at the diner. The route to the apartment’s become part of my muscle memory, and I don't remember the drive back. Seeing Jahan, hearing him speak—it’s all muted now, a ripple deep under the surface that I’ll feel later, but, right now, I try to hold onto the feeling of just… 

_Just what, Miri? ‘Just being wanted’? Don’t be so pathetic. _

Even the thoughts that remind me of reality are quieter, they haven’t found their footing just yet—the small moment of peace with Jason is something I want to last until I fall asleep. Maybe my dreams will be different; there’ll be something else for my mind to cling to. 

_Definitely pathetic. _

When I walk up the stairs, I don’t smell the mould coming from the carpet, the stale air, or feel the thick dust fluttering to tickle my nose. My legs don’t feel heavy, like that familiar weight that always drags me down took a break for a little while and I can breathe easier for the first time in months. 

_Maybe even years. _

The apartment door doesn’t stick like it usually does, the key slides in and catches the tumblers immediately. I don't want to push my luck; the longer I stay awake, the more all of this will fade. Stripping down to my sweater and crawling into bed sounds like heaven right now, and I start pulling off my boots. 

A lamp turns on in the far corner, lighting up the outline of a dark silhouette; I lose my balance and fall—my boot going flying. 

_"Shit!—_" 

_Get up, get up—get out the door, go where you have an advantage— _

I’m reaching for my kubotan, pushing the top down and freeing the knife when the figure stands, brushing back a long curtain of straight black hair. I know that posture anywhere—the slight slouch that tries to hide what might as well be a rigid tree that refuses to bow to the wind. All the silence I managed to carve for myself is gone, my head a flurry of competing thoughts and urges. To beat her head in, to scream, to throw something, collapse on the floor and calm how wildly my heart’s beating. All I manage to hang onto is indignant rage. 

"Fucking—what the _fuck _are you doing here, Naomi?!" I yell, hobbling to my feet as I yank off the other boot. It takes everything I have to not lob it at her head. 

“Nice to see you, too, Kane." 

She steps forward, turning on another lamp in the small corner by the bed and giving me a level stare. She could’ve been there for minutes or hours and still looked the same—always maintaining that expression of impassive pragmatism. I usually admire the control she has of herself; right now it makes me _furious. _

Catching my glare as I straighten, she raises an eyebrow in response before looking me up and down. "And it's _Matsumoto_ for you." 

_Her and her fucking hierarchies. _

At least she doesn’t make me add in the _Lieutenant _anymore. 

My heart's beating too fast, flooded with adrenaline I can't use. This sure as hell isn't home for me, but Naomi just—just _sneaking _in feels almost as bad as when _he _broke into the penthouse. Face burning with the realization that she might have searched through everything here, looking for more information to add to the list of why I'm _such _a liability, I try to take a deep breath. "You could've—" 

"Called? You've been dodging me. A dangerous thing to do in our line of work. _Especially _in a place like Gotham." 

_Can't resist micromanaging, can she? _

Naomi takes a seat on the ratty chair in the corner, nodding for me to sit on the loveseat. The petulant teen in me wants to spit and stand by the door in haughty silence, but that doesn't work with her—it's all about getting the job done, and she still doesn't trust me completely to do it on my own. 

"I can look after myself," I bite, sitting on the couch. My muscles are taut, like I'm getting ready for a fight. With Naomi, I might as well be. 

"Can you?" She arches an eyebrow, examining her nails and sucking her teeth. "Past experience tells me that isn't _exactly _true." 

_Fuck you._

God, how I _want _to say that to her face. Resentment is something she doesn't entirely deserve—and she's never been one to coddle—but working for her has become a variant of what _he_ wanted from me: Both search for the weaknesses in others and exploit them, all in the name of some _pure _form of otherwise twisted ideals. His was just anarchy and hers is total control, _order_. And they both want me to help make it happen for them. At least with Naomi I'm just another cog in a behemoth, not the prime incendiary. 

"What do you want?" The urge to sleep is gone but the exhaustion remains, pushing down on my shoulders and slithering under my skin. 

Naomi isn't staring at her nails anymore. Leaning forward, elbows on her knees, her eyes do what I've become so familiar with—they try to pierce through me, find the cracks I try to hide, come up with some plan to mitigate the outcomes they'll inevitably bring, even if the only one who benefits from it is her. "I _want _results. You haven't checked in with David in nearly a week, you won't talk to me. Don't tell me you still can't handle this." 

And how Naomi benefits is getting the job done, ticking another item off the list before moving onto the next. 

"I can _handle _this fine." The growl is unexpected, but I don't regret it, even if she doesn't even blink.

"Hmm." She leans back in the chair, arms spread wide and foot tapping. I know what to expect when she looks like that, when she won't meet my eyes. 

_Here it comes… _

"Seems like you've been doing field trips instead. I hope for your sake that your _excursion_ to a warehouse that, _somehow_, burned to the ground was related to work—and that you didn't find yourself another terrorist to cozy up with." Bracing myself did nothing. Her words hit me in the stomach, my sternum burning hot. She doesn't give me time to recover, to think, or gape in disbelief. "And yes, you do need to do a debrief on that. Why you didn't in the first place isn't working in your favour." 

_How does Naomi know about that? The only people who know are Bruce and Alfred— _

"How're things at the new set-up in the Palisades? Going for _outings _with your new friend?" 

Naomi's finally looking at me, and I wish she wouldn't. Speechless rage sets my blood on fire. 

_She's been following me. Of course she would—why didn’t I prepare for that?_

It takes everything in me not to spring at her, to temper the overwhelming desire to throttle her. The flashes of angry violence scare me, but they're not enough to make me calm. 

"Did you not think the car would have GPS, Kane? Using the internet isn't the only way to track someone." 

I can't stand looking at her—I'm losing control of what I'm seeing, what I want to do. 

_Use your head, don't be stupid. _

"You had _no right—" _I say through gritted teeth, eyes closed as I try to master the wrath licking its way up my throat, burning like I swallowed fire. 

"Are you going to tell me that I shouldn't be worried, to _loosen up_ a bit?" Naomi interrupts. She's getting heated—a rare sight. She must be almost as angry as I am. "How many places were levelled because no one thought to notice what you were up to? How many people _died?" _

The words land like a blow to the head, disorienting and leaving me dazed, making the back of my skull ache and ears ring. I'm not seeing Naomi anymore—I'm seeing _him. _At the Mayor's house. 

_"Because all you do is hurt people, right?" _

I regret not stopping at the liquor store—getting gin, vodka, _something _to numb this; I need to keep everything from flooding over. But I don't have anything—and taking a small handful of pills in front of Naomi isn't an option. Hot tears threaten to spill over. 

_No—_no. _Do _not _cry in front of her. _

But she isn’t wrong. She knows she isn’t. 

Getting up, I pour myself a large glass of water. It won't make me feel better, but at least it's a distraction. "Is _that_ why you're here? To throw it in my face?" I ask, clearing my throat and concentrating on not throwing the glass at her like I did with Bruce. 

"No, that's not why I came." Naomi sighs, rubbing her brow. The rare burst of exasperation is gone, and something I don't recognize takes its place. "Why haven't you made an appointment yet?" 

I press my hand against my closed eyes, trying to keep my voice steady. Everything still comes out with a bite. "You _know _why." 

"He's in a maximum-security ward drugged up six ways from Sunday in a straitjacket. Being in the same vicinity with thick walls and steel doors won't kill you. You won't even _see _him." She rolls her eyes and my fists burn like they do when I'm getting ready to hit a punching bag. It’s smarter if I say nothing. I don’t trust what will come out of my mouth—the vitriol builds until it feels like I’m choking. Her expression softens—something just as rare as seeing her angry. "Kid, he doesn't have that kind of power anymore. He can't do _anything. _And admit it for once in your goddamn life that you need help." 

_What the hell does she know—about _anything?

"Don't lecture me."

Arguing with Naomi is pointless, always has been. It’s not that she doesn’t listen—it’s that she doesn’t _care_. Not in the ways that matter.

_What else were you expecting? _

"I just… I don't want to do this." I wince at how I sound: _emotional. _If there’s one thing Naomi doesn’t understand, it’s that. 

She gets up from her chair, eyes dragging over my still-unpacked suitcase. "I need you sharp for—"

"No, that's what I'm talking about. I don't want to do _this_ anymore. I don't even want to be _here. _I don't… I don't want any of it." 

I’ve wanted out since nearly the beginning. Taking the job in Chicago meant an escape from the media circus that would’ve otherwise become my life, hide under the umbrella of the government, it meant that I didn’t have to face _him _again, have thousands of eyes affirm every word he ever said to me, but it turns out I didn’t need to be there for that to happen—I just had to look in the mirror. 

It also meant that I signed up for the permanent feeling of being dirty, of being ashamed of the work I did but following orders anyway, listening to Naomi in exchange for a tenuous promise of protection that required my constant, silent obedience. After being back in Gotham, seeing Bruce, meeting Jason—even Zareen—they’re filling me with the false promise of hope. 

_Hope for what? _

Naomi’s face hardens, transforming into marble as every hint of expression is smoothed away. "You _chose _this, Miriam. You can fight me all you want, but what alternatives do you think you have now?" She sounds reasonable—like she’s pointing a small flaw in my argument—but I know her better than that, and I won’t answer rhetorical questions. Her head cocks to the side, eyes narrowing. "No one's asking you to _enjoy _what we do—I sure as hell don't—but it's _necessary." _

_Necessary. Right. _

I want to be alone, to shove everything away and wonder why I bother trying, but Naomi is relentless. She’s the _Colonel_ now, her back ramrod straight and hands clasped behind her. From her stare alone she manages to make me feel small. 

"You didn't give yourself many options, did you?” she asks quietly, Nothing she’s saying is a lie, and that makes it worse. “What—you can quit anytime you like, but that means you're going to be right in court fighting charges for accessory to _everything _that _psychotic clown_ ever did. Is _that_ what you want?” Her voice rises, becoming that of a drill sergeant. There’s nowhere to back up, nowhere to hide. I stand my ground, pinching my palms to keep myself from shaking. “The government doesn't do _shit _for free, and something doesn't come from nothing." 

An image pops in my head, vivid and bright. It’s the man from the warehouse, the one pressing me down with his boot. I’m hitting him again—over and over—but it isn’t him I’m hitting anymore. It’s Naomi. 

_What the hell is _wrong _with you? _

The image becomes disorienting, too visceral to take it all in, and it’s almost like I can see the blood running down her forehead now. 

_Stop it—_stop_. _

I walk past Naomi, knocking my shoulder into hers even though I know with certainty that she could kick my ass if she really wanted to, and go to my suitcase, rifling around for something I don’t have. My hope was that she’d leave—but that’s in vain, too. The apartment’s become a cage, a trap that makes my skin ripple. 

She’s staring at me, I know she is, and Naomi doesn’t know the meaning of _give me some space. _"You have an appointment at Arkham tomorrow morning. 11:30 am. If you miss it, you won't like the consequences. You don't get to pull the shit you did in Chicago." 

I almost throw my hairbrush at her head, but I swallow my rage, gripping the handle until my knuckles turn white. She’s referring to the times I’d drink through two to three-day-long benders, when she _really _started pushing for therapy and was so _irrevocably _disappointed that it didn’t go the way she wanted. 

_Some things just don’t change, haven’t you learned that? _

I knew I'd have to go there—if not to appease Naomi, it would be to investigate the chips. Those questions are just as pressing, but lacking choice in the matter is what makes it burn my skin like acid. 

"I don't want to babysit you, Miriam. You're tough," she says, sounding very far away. "Start acting like it." Biting my tongue, I hang my head, refusing to look at her. "And answer your phone when I call, and maybe next time we can avoid the pleasantries." 

I hear the apartment door swing open, her at the doorway. It’s not until she curses and shuts it that I look up—but she hasn’t left. 

"I need you to do something else." The marble’s cracking and something like human emotion peeks through again.

Sighing, I know that even though it sounds like a request, it isn’t one. "...What?" 

Hesitating—something new for Naomi—she stares at her wristwatch and frowns. With a quiet huff, she says, "Brief Gordon for me. He needs to be brought up to date and we need more access to his files—the gang activity is connected to the investigation: We have reports of heroin dens going up in flames and gang wars spilling into the streets." I’m reeling from the mention of Gordon’s name and she hesitates again. “I need you to… to get information on the Gotham Docks fire, see if there are any connections beyond the initial report.” 

As much as I hate working for her, there’s another part of me that can’t help but enjoy aspects of it—trying to figure out a problem that doesn’t really affect me, that I can pretend is part of some game that I don’t have to think too hard about. I used to do the same thing when I worked for Ivan Dimitrov, brief as it was but no less dirty. 

"You don't believe what they're saying about that being an accident?" I ask. Naomi paying this close to Gotham news is surprising, but I guess she has people for that. 

_Yeah. You’re supposed to be one of them. _

"You do?" she rejoins, crossing her arms. 

"No." I sit on the edge of the bed, rubbing the coming exhaustion out of my eyes. "You think it's a cover-up?" 

"I don't know what it is. That's what I have _you _for." 

"I thought David was supposed to—" 

"I want someone I can _trust_, Miriam," she interrupts. This isn’t exasperation, not her trying to be pleasant—it’s almost an appeal. I haven’t heard that from her before. 

"You're inferring that you _don't _trust him." She stiffens, eyes narrowing further. “Either you trust me or you don’t, you don’t get to have it both ways.” 

Rolling her eyes and jutting out a hip, it takes almost ten years off, making her look like an annoyed teen. "No, I'm _inferring _that I know you won't lie to me about this, that I can trust you to get it done." 

I stare at her in disbelief—that’s the most faith she’s ever articulated to my face before—I don’t even know if it’s warranted. There was no urge to tell her about my encounter with Red Hood and STAGG Enterprises, the connection to Arkham Asylum, and I don’t think I ever will unless it’s absolutely necessary. Naomi was right—I do stupid things when there isn’t anyone watching close enough. 

_Then maybe you shouldn’t. Just… don’t do things you’ll regret. _

Easier said than done, though, isn’t it? As much resentment as I feel, I can’t blame Naomi for the things she does—I was the one who caused it all to happen this way. 

_‘You _ruin _people.’ _

“I’m just… I’m a cyber forensic investigator—why do you want me to debrief Gordon? It’s not like I’m the most qualified.” 

The thought of seeing him makes me feel sick to my stomach, another confrontation I’m not ready to have. He’ll be angry with me—he’ll want answers I can’t give him. My throat gets thick, eyes stinging. 

_You won’t sleep tonight without something. _

Already debating whether I buy something cheap at the corner store and drink enough of it that it drowns everything or stick with the valium, it’s all I can do to hold it together until she leaves. I jump and tense when her hand rests on my shoulder, hesitant and light. I don’t focus on it—on the gesture of comfort that I don’t think either of us knows how to deal with, and stare without seeing at the frayed fabric on the loveseat, trying to count the variants in the pattern until my vision blurs. 

"I’m not sending you to see Gordon as a form of punishment, Miriam.” 

_You say that, and yet I don’t believe you. _

She’s never been punitive, but she’s always been cold. Even her hands exude no warmth—her slender fingers try to give me a squeeze of reassurance that feels closer to a pinch. She’s just as bad at this as I am. 

“You have history, and you're observant—definitely a hell of a lot better at reading between the lines than David." 

I think that’s her version of a compliment, but I say nothing, only waiting for this to be over. When I don’t answer, she gives my shoulder one last bit of pressure before leaving. She still hesitates at the door, her boots probably scuffing the tile. I keep staring ahead, pretending like things aren’t so bad again, like I can cut out the parts that hurt and hold onto the good. 

"Don't answer anything you don't want to—you're not there because of the Siege. You'll be fine." 

Her voice is soft, borderline caring, but I don’t acknowledge it, don’t watch her leave. I’m just… staring at the couch, finding a limbo that I can stay in forever. Finding my footing doesn’t seem to last, they always slip out from under me so I fall back down the mountain I was foolish enough to climb. 

_Remember, things don’t change at all. _

* * *

The road to the new Arkham Asylum facility is long and winding, obscured by dense trees that block out any rare view of the sun. When they clear, the sprawling complex seems more befitting of a prison than a hospital. Standing at twenty feet with _HIGH VOLTAGE _signs dotting it, the wrought iron fence is unusually gothic in comparison to the large concrete parking lot with its fluorescent floodlights. It’s even stranger when both are juxtaposed against the grass that’s brighter, richer for existing between two separate blocks of gray. It would look as ordinary as asylums go if it weren't for the guard towers along the perimeter and the check-in gate wasn’t closer to what I’ve seen at military bases—a gate system with six guards and retractable metal pillars that would make it impossible to break through with a vehicle. 

_The men in black fatigues carrying M-16s might be another indicator. Just maybe. _

“What’s your purpose here?” one of them asks after I stop at the blockade, holding my driver’s license and looking from it to me. His own face is covered up to his nose, he doesn’t have any identifying tags other than _TYGER _above his breast pocket—a contract group I've never heard of before, and I don’t miss his side pistol.

_Lots of firepower for an asylum—even one holding the criminally insane. _

“I have an appointment.” The key to short interactions with paramilitary types is to show you’re not nervous, that their presence is a natural one. My palms still sweat. 

“With?” 

His face is carefully blank, bored, but I know he’s clocking every movement I make. He didn’t even blink at my name. Either he’s been living under a rock or doesn’t care—a rare occurrence. 

I match his expression and stay deadpan—can’t read much of anything from that. “Dr. Grant.” At least I think that’s his name. No going to check the email Naomi sent. 

The guard hands back my license and nods to his partner manning the front gate. “Park in the visitors’ area and check-in with security. They’ll get you a badge and take you to the right wing.” 

Every motion of my body doesn’t feel real, like I’m watching it happen from a distance, almost playing some game where I control the car from a bird’s eye view. My eyes are heavier than I want them to be—I chose pills to make me sleep instead of venturing out to a store for booze, a mistake in retrospect that I can’t bring myself to regret making yet—but they help muffle the world, putting small pieces of cotton in my ears and blur any sharp edges. 

The three I took before I left aren’t helping anything either—they aren’t doing what I desperately need them to. Overwhelming panic makes the world spin. 

_Or maybe it’s because you took to many. _

Driving here was a mistake—and irresponsible, no denying that. _Coming _here is a mistake. I fulfilled my end of the deal with Bruce; I sent him a message that I’d be here. He offered to come and I was surprised he backed-off when I said no. Whether or not he’s watching from some tree branch like an idiot is another story, but at least he’s not trying to hold my hand, even if a part of me wants him to. 

“Breathe,” I whisper to myself, the blood fleeing my hands as I grip the steering wheel. _“Breathe.” _

_You won’t see him. He won’t see you. _

But how do I know that for sure? It’s not like I expect him to be wandering in a rec room somewhere, waving at me through thick glass, giving me that knowing_ fucking_ smirk— 

_You’re fine—you’ll be fine. Don’t think about him. _Don’t_. _

Dealing with this Dr. Theodore Grant will be the same as how I dealt with the others back in Chicago—vague answers and killing time. The longest I’ll be inside is just over an hour. Getting the lay of the land, finding a quiet corner where I can access a computer in the coming weeks—those are all important. There's something bigger than me attached to this. _That's _what I need to focus on. Helping people. Doing something for anyone other than myself. 

_You can do this. You can. _

That’s what I keep repeating until it’s louder than the other voices and blocks the images flashing when my eyes close, trying to drive me mad, as I walk across the parking lot, my hands clenched into fists. It’s an array of sounds and smells and visions of blood and fire and ripped skin. The ground’s unsteady, swelling and sinking under my feet. 

_No—that’s not the ground, it’s you. _

The front façade is older than the rest, similar in architectural style to Wayne Manor but resembling more of a nineteenth-century university. The brown brick is stained gray; green vines crawl up the side only to wither and die before they get a third of the way. Every other building looks new and modern, all precise angles and large glass windows. Mayor Hill's been funnelling a great deal of money here, that's obvious. 

_That's right, focus on something else. Breathe, Miri. Just breathe. _

Clinging to the cloudiness dulling my brain, I become a ghost: Opening the door, walking past the guards stationed at the entrance without sparing them a second glance, mechanically giving the staff at the security desk my license and staring into an abstract painting hanging over their heads, all its violent strokes of red and spattered blue. There are forms that I fill out from memory, littered with half-truths and omissions. I don’t remember sitting down, my spine at an odd angle that borders on uncomfortable against the stiff back of the chair, and I get lost in the black and white swirl of the tile. The others waiting next to me are ghosts, too. Other lost souls in the wrong place. Everything becomes… disconnected. What's left of me floats away from my numbing body as the white of the tiles transforms into red. 

_How many times have you seen that before?_

“Miss Kane?” 

Blood running down a drain—that’s what it looks like. 

It’s like a hot fire poker is embedded in my stomach, twisting and— 

“M-Miss Kane?” 

My head snaps up, clarity coming back long enough to register the man standing in front of me. He’s small—dark brown hair that matches his slanted eyes, and his fingers tense and twitch around his clipboard. Wearing a white coat over blue scrubs, he’s anxiety personified.

I don’t like the way he’s staring at me—it’s not creepy; it’s more similar to meeting a distant relative that’s heard everything about you without ever meeting. “Um, sorry, didn’t… didn’t mean to—to startle you.” 

_Jesus, how did he get a job here? _

“You didn’t.” 

Standing up too quickly makes my vision go black for a moment, my head forgetting that it’s attached to a body, and I brace myself against the chair. When the headrush leaves, the man looks like he’s about ready to wrap me in a blanket and offer me some goddamn cocoa. 

“So…” I say, looking from him to the various doors with their guards and pretending I didn't just almost pass out and hope he takes a hint and brings me closer to ending the misery. From the way he’s still staring, I don’t think he got it. “I’m here to see Dr. Grant?” 

He shakes his head like he’s coming out of a dream, his cheeks darkening. “R-Right, sorry—sorry, um. This way?”

_Why does it sound like he’s asking _me? _Christ. _

Starting and stopping, unsure of how to walk around me, he gives me a wide berth before heading towards a wide set of double doors. It's electronically locked with an alarm set up above the frame, and they're thick if the width of the glass is anything to go by. My feet stop working, the cold sweat running down my back makes me shiver despite the heavy sweater and jacket I’m wearing.

_OUTPATIENT CARE. PROTOCOL 1 IN EFFECT AT ALL TIMES_

The headrush surges, darkening the edges of my vision and my legs shake. 

_You can't go in there. How will you get out? Where are the exits? _

“What’s through there?” I ask. The cotton is back in my ears, muffling my own voice. 

The man looks from the door to me. “This is Ward A—the lowest security wing of Arkham. It’s doctor’s offices and session rooms, a—a nursing station, and file rooms.” 

Despite what he’s saying, my heart doesn’t slow, only getting faster and more erratic. 

_He’s not there. He’s not, he’s not— _

“I, um… I’m sorry if this—this is forward,” he says, stepping closer to me, “but you don’t… none of the—the _other _patients are there. They stay in—in the C and D Wards, high—high-risk areas. So don’t… you don’t have to worry.” His smile is hesitant but no less gentle. Of course he’d know about me, working here with _him. _They’d all know. 

_Don’t think about it. Don’t think about anything. _

“I’m Eugene, by—by the way.” He’s a head shorter than I am, but I stay close as he swipes us in with his key card and escorts me down the hall. His presence is oddly reassuring given his own disposition. “I’m a… a psychiatric nurse, started when Arkham opened again.” He seems awfully young to have gone through that much schooling, but maybe it’s because of how nervous he is—it makes him more endearing than the aloof hospital staff I’ve met in the past. 

_Can you blame him? Working here would make anyone an anxious mess. _

“Are you giving the preliminary assessment?” 

The hallway is sterile and white with its gleaming white tile and green linoleum buffed and shined to the point that I can see my fuzzy reflection in it. Nurses speaking with people who look like doctors—if their business clothes instead of scrubs are any indicator of that—pass by, charts in hand and names of medications I can’t pronounce passing back and forth until I can’t hear them anymore. It’s not until Eugene’s halfway through his answer that I realize I never bothered listening for it.

“—intake forms within the last three months are what the—the doctor will work with for the first session.” 

_Pay attention, Miri. Be smart._

If anyone’s going to be able to tell I’m high, it’s a fucking nurse. Taking the pills is certainly doing more harm than good, and the unease is unrelenting.

_Idiot. _

We keep walking, taking several twists and turns that lead us deeper into the asylum. The further we go, the less air I have, the smaller I feel. It's not until we come to a large, dark-stained door that looks entirely out of place with the rest of the ward that Eugene stops. He's trying to smile, but he's sweating more than I am. 

_That's _definitely _not a good sign. _

Knocking twice, I don't hear anything from within, but Eugene nods to himself and steps aside. His smile attempts to be reassuring but it's wobbly and half-hearted. That feeling of one-sided familiarity returns, and I can't bring myself to smile back. 

"The doctor… doctor's ready for you," he says quietly, shaking a little harder than before. "I hope—hope you have a good session." 

_Why does he look like that? _

Waving goodbye, he all but runs down the corridor, like he couldn't get away from the room fast enough. 

_Maybe he's afraid. _

Making a mental note to check into him later—either to see if his clearance is easily accessible or whether I can mine for information—I jump when a deep voice comes from the other side of the door. “Please, come in.” 

It’s hard to tell, but there’s an accent there I can’t place. Hand shaking, I open the door to find an office that’s from a completely different time, more like something I’ve read in _Frankenstein _than a practicing psychiatrist’s office. The walls are almost entirely covered in bookshelves, a red Persian carpet spans the wood floor, and a high window gives an entire view of some kind of outdoor garden area. It doesn’t look part of the same hospital at all—not the interior, anyway. It certainly matches the main exterior. 

“Please, sit.” Flinching, I see the doctor—a small Asian man with a chinstrap beard and glasses that match the century his office is styled in. “I am Dr. Hugo Strange. It is a pleasure, Miss Kane.” 

“Strange? I thought—”

“Dr. Grant is… unable to come in for the foreseeable future. My apologies, I was under the impression you would have been informed. I am the head of psychiatry here at Arkham, and, I can assure you, you will receive the best possible care.”

_Oh, hell. Isn’t that something a James Bond villain would say? _

Dr. Strange is the one Bruce wanted to investigate—if something was happening here, he’d know. 

“...Right.”

He’s smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, and he’s calm, his gaze measured. Sitting behind a large desk with even more books behind him, the free wall space he has is decorated with picture frames of landscapes and people I don’t recognize, and several proudly arranged diplomas, awards and degrees. 

“What brings you to us today, Miss Kane?” Even though his voice is soft, I flinch again and stare in confusion. I’m about to reply with something sarcastic when he clarifies, “What necessitates your visit? Why have you been recommended for our care?”

Standing up, he walks out from behind his desk—he’s only a few inches taller than Eugene—and directs my attention to two large chairs in front of the window. Sitting in one, he gestures for me to take the other. Walking into this feels like a mistake, like I’m about to be ambushed, and I can’t tell if it’s warranted or the extreme paranoia. 

_Both—probably both. _

I need to find an opening, do some probing of my own. And if I leave here without better _progress _to report back to Naomi, I’m pretty sure she’s shipping me off to whatever the American equivalent to Siberia is. 

_Or just _actual _Siberia. Wouldn’t put it past her. _

“You have my file, don’t you?” I ask, sitting down without taking off my coat and crossing my arms. The view outside is nice, idyllic with its park benches and manicured lawn and clear lines of sight but there aren’t any patients. It’s a full garden with no one to enjoy it. 

“Yes,” he says, tapping on a thick stack of paper in a brown file-folder next to him on the side table, “but I do not believe you are the most… _forthcoming._ Treatment is not effective without honesty.”

In my efforts not to laugh, the sound comes out like a scoff instead. _Understatement of the year, _I want to say but don’t. _Don’t give him anything _is the more pressing priority. They can’t hit me with anything if I don’t give them the ammunition. 

_Had to learn that the hard way, don’t you? _

But Strange seems to catch what I’m doing, crossing his legs and leaning back, observing distantly with clinical curiosity. He has what would technically be considered a smile on his face if it wasn’t so hollow. “Your previous doctors mention a distinct sense of hostility. Why is that?”

“Maybe because they asked asinine questions,” I shrug, still not looking at him for long and examining the room as closely as he examines me. 

“That is not a helpful attitude.” 

My hackles rise, but I try to lean back myself, sink into the haze the remnants of the valium in my system offers. It’s better than the clouding irritability that tightens my shoulders. 

_Don’t answer anything. _

“I want to hear why you need treatment from yourself. It is important to understand what a patient hopes the outcomes of therapy will be and what goals would be best to work toward.” Hungarian, maybe German? I still can’t place his accent, and I turn it into a game to block out what he’s trying to do. “I can repeat what the news regurgitates, but I believe you are acutely aware that they are not always messengers of truth.”

“That’s an understatement.” 

_Fucking—_fuck,_ Miriam. What happened to not answering anything? _

I handled being high better in high school. Yeah, I’d skip class and blow off assignments, but I must’ve been better than this, right?

_The stakes were never at this level before. _

Clarity—self-discipline and _clarity _are what I need. Responding can’t be an option. Vague, haughty disinterest—my go-to behaviour to mask my own bullshit—is a mask I can’t don today, and the realization makes me freeze. 

Strange leans forward, chuckling as he threads his fingers together. “Do not worry, I am not going to ask for a regaling of what transpired.” I look at him sharply. Every other doctor wanted that—a play-by-play of every awful thing that happened, a timeline that was more for appeasing their own morbid appetite than helping me. “How much have you processed your experiences?” His head tilts to the side, voice still low and calm. 

“What do you mean?”

“How are you coping?”

_Shit. _

There’s no way the truth is coming out about that. He’d have me in an addiction program right away, talking about _dependency_ and the _dangers _they have on my body like it’s not the intended consequences I want to suffer. The others went over enough pointers about dream diaries, the benefits of meditation and journaling that I can list all the things I should be doing but don’t; something tells me he wouldn’t believe the lies I’d tell him, anyway.

“Your intake form does not list any medications.”

He’s still waiting for an answer but, unlike the others, he’s better at outwaiting me for one. His stare is more uncomfortable, scrying past the surface and taking notes on what he finds underneath. 

_Keep it simple. _

“Exercise.”

Raising an eyebrow, he nods slowly. “Exercise is the only method you employ? Refusing adequate treatment and medication to rely on that alone seems insufficient.”

“It isn’t.” I sound defensive, that _definitely _won’t help anything, but it’s something in the way he asks that automatically makes me feel backed against a wall. 

_Breathe. Be calm. _

“You do not hurt yourself? Turn to alcohol or drugs?” His eyes are narrowed, zeroing in on something I didn’t mean to show. Paranoia floods my mind, accelerating the panic. I’ve avoided talking about what I do to sleep at night with everyone, and I’m sure as hell not starting here. 

_‘You had a _bit _of a drug problem, didn't you, Miri?’_

“No.”

_Stop. Don’t think about him. _

“Hmm.”

_Fucking hell. _

He doesn’t believe me, _of course _he doesn’t. My eyes are probably all bugged out and an idiot could see that I haven’t slept well in a long time. It’s not rocket science, and every move I make to obscure what I’m feeling only seems to reveal them. 

“What would you like to get out of treatment? In an… _ideal _scenario.” 

_Forget everything. Shake off the crushing weight of blame. Cry and someone tell me that I didn’t fuck so badly, that I’m not broken. _

“I want you to sign those forms Homeland gave you and I never have to see this place again.” 

A corner of his mouth twitches, the first sign of a genuine grin since I walked into the room, and he nods. “It is because the Joker is here, yes?” My body goes rigid at the mention of his name. Every time I hear it my entire torso sets on fire, tracks of heat searing across my chest and pooling in the scar tissue. The trace of a grin returns, lighting his face with something that isn’t joy. “Are you able to say the name aloud?”

_‘I think I've, ah, figured it out. They can see how _ugly _you are. _On the inside_._’

_Don’t answer that. _

Barely moving my shoulders in answer, I stare out the window again, a convenient escape to not meet his eyes. It does nothing to stop the voice in my head. 

_‘They can see it just as well as I can. It's what makes you _disposable _to them. They take _one _good look at you and_ oh! _that's it. _You. Mean. Nothing.’

_Don’t think about it, don’t think about him—it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t— _

“Detaching yourself from the traumas your mind and body remember is normal. Hiding behind that forever is not. One cannot escape reality.” 

Just like with Naomi, I can think of more ways to make him scream than I ever thought possible, already imagine what it would be like to hit him and feel his skin swell before it happens. My hands strangle each other, wringing the fingers and trapping them between my legs. I’m afraid to look at him, like his smile will set me off. Hurting people like that isn’t something I do. _It isn’t. _

But I shake when I realize I want to—I _want _to hurt him. 

_‘It's alright, though. We share that, you and me. So different, but the _same _in _all _the ways that matter.’_

“Your hospital records describe several scars—”

_‘Think about it. You've _lied _almost your whole life, hmm? Brucie just—just couldn't _wait _to get away from you. Took him nearly _ten years_ to come back! Why do y'think Parker never loved you back and threw you to the _fucking hyenas?’

“Stop—”

_‘You're alone right now, aren't you?’_

“The most prominent and severe being along your—”

Pain sears my skin, deep into the muscle as they convulse. I’m on the floor again, I can’t move my arms—they’re pinned down as something cold and sharp traces a path up my thigh. Strange is looking at one of the photos the police took when I was in the hospital—the shape of the _J _red and glaring. 

_‘Do you think _I'll _ever leave you? _Hmm?’

_“Stop.” _

_Make it stop, make it stop— _

_‘C'mon now, we know you _do _deserve it, though, don't we?’_

Air can’t move past my throat, choking me. The valium isn’t taking the panic away—isn’t mitigating anything. It’s melding the past and present, filling my nose with the smell of cigarettes and blood and gasoline and fire and smoke and _him_— 

_Stop, Miri—breathe. _Breathe— 

“How does that make you feel? What he did.” 

I want to jump out of the chair, run down the hall as fast as I can, but a larger part of me wants to smash Strange’s head against the floor—_over and over and over again_ like it’s a proxy for _his _head. 

_‘You know I'm not going anywhere, hmm?’_

_Drown it. Bury it deep. _

Everything is conversing together—the sun disappears and I’m back in the dark, bleeding and paralyzed. I can’t tell who I’m speaking to, what I’m not supposed to say. 

“Angry.”

_‘Too _little_, too _late_, sweetheart. Where was all this… before? A bit _useless _now, ain't it?’_

“Just angry?”

_Whose voice is that? What am I doing? _

“I don’t… I don’t want to talk about him.”

_Think, Miri—stop. Take a deep breath. _

Shutting my eyes, I stop moving. It’s only when I’m still that I can focus on the individual muscles, relax them one at a time until air fills my lungs. 

_It’s Strange talking. You’re at Arkham. You’re OK. _

No, I’m not—but I keep repeating it and hope it’ll become true. 

“What do you believe will help? You are clearly still experiencing a good deal of distress.” 

He’s still trying to sound _understanding, _like he has some kind of _fucking _idea of what I feel because he read it in a file made up by a group of shrinks that don’t know _shit. _

_You know what’ll help? Smacking your head into a wall. _

No—no, no. It won’t. It won’t. _It won’t. _

“I just… I want to forget.”

I didn’t want the truth to come out either, but it’s better than what’s building in me. 

“Suggesting that you are remembering too much now?” he asks. I don’t think it’s what he’s intending, but I use Strange’s voice to drown out _his_, to ground me. My last therapists were bad—but none of them purposely triggered me. “You also suffered several head injuries. Did this fragment your memories at all?” 

“At first.”

“And now?” 

_Stop giving him information. You’re hurting yourself without feeling it yet. _

I focus on staring at the sun, looking at how it hits the trees, the dark corners hidden in cold shade. The light will burn out what’s hiding in the dark, keep my eyes from playing tricks and dragging up what isn’t real anymore.

_‘Only for you.’_

I wonder if he’s been outside since they locked him up, if he’s rotting in some basement, if he’s had the chance to understand what being helpless is like—that special kind of suffering that I hope never ends for him.

_‘Just for you.’ _

“How did your experiences change your view of yourself?”

Everything was too visceral before, but now it’s muted again, soaking my mind in exhaustion. “What does that mean?” I ask, rubbing my forehead and refusing to look at him. 

“Do you see yourself more… _positively _after the Siege or negatively?” He shifts, his black dress shoes moving along the carpet.

My tongue feels loose—like it did when the doctors pumped me with morphine after the surgery to repair the damage the bullet did. “That should be fucking obvious.” 

_Shut up, Miri. _

He doesn’t ask any follow-up question, just lets us sit in silence. I keep staring out of the window when the sun hides again behind a stretch of overcast clouds, darkening my mood and saturating it in what’s dragging me down. 

I need to snap out of it—find that clarity and see through the fog_. _

_But it’s so hard to think. _

It’s hot sitting here in my sweater and rain jacket, sweat collecting under my arms and my skin itching like I bathed in chlorine water. 

This is what I would do to the other therapists: I’d be silent, tight-lipped. They would try for the entire session to gently prod me into giving bits of information, _opening up. _That entire ability to sit here unmoved is gone, the discomfort at a level that makes me feel like I’m going to throw up at any minute. But I will not move. I won’t take off my jacket, open my posture. _I won’t. _

Dr. Strange makes a thoughtful noise, taking off his round glasses and leaning forward. He still doesn’t say anything—not until I glance at him and meet his eyes. Something in them holds mine—maybe it’s how deep there are, almost lulling, or maybe it’s because they try to see through me so much like _his _did.

“Tell me about your family.” Bile rises in my throat. I wasn’t expecting this. “What are they like? I imagine there are many challenges in being related to someone of the social status Bruce Wayne occupies.”

Strange sounds more… _genuine_. Inquisitive. Understanding, even. He’s still leaning forward, almost in an entreaty for me to speak. Everything’s too light, it doesn’t hold my thoughts down. 

“What is there to say?” Unconsciously, I break my own resolution, half mimicking his posture and leaning forward to hold my head in my hands. “Mother’s dead. Father hasn’t been in the picture since I was six. My cousin went missing for seven years. The closest thing I have to a father is also his _butler_, and my best friend—” 

_What did you do, Miri? _

It’s just like before. I can’t help but give people the map to hurt me. To make it worse. And I’m always the one doing it to myself. My lip shakes. 

“Parker Kwan, yes?” 

_Why does he have to sound so gentle when he says his name? _

Nodding, I realize it’s already too late. The tears I’ve been holding back flood over. My fingers dig into my scalp, nails biting and creating deep grooves. A wrenching sob shakes my chest. 

“He was important to you?”

I nod again, heels of my palms digging into my eyes as I try to keep the thoughts in, hold back what’s going to dominate everything else. I don’t feel angry anymore—I feel powerless and afraid. Even with my eyes closed, it’s Parker I see lying in that hospital bed, missing a leg and so, _so _pale, his hand like ice in mine. 

“Who do you blame for his death?”

My heart’s being carved out of my chest, the knife snapping bone and sawing through muscle. 

“Me,” I choke out, breath hitching in my chest. “It was my—_my fault.”_

_It’s always my fault. _

“Why do you believe that?” he asks, voice still just as gentle. 

_‘You ruin people.’ _

_How do I answer that, encapsulate every awful thing I’ve ever done? _

I shake my head, choking on the words I don’t know how to form. 

“He died from sepsis, but his heart had undergone significant damage.” More information he got from a chart made by someone else. They don’t have everything, the exact scope of how much I failed him. “Were _you _the one who administered several shots of epinephrine?”

The question finally makes me raise my head and look at him. His voice is gentle, but the look in his eyes isn’t. I almost can’t see it for how much I’m crying, and I try to stop the floodgate that’s already wedged open. 

“...No.”

“Did you brand him?” 

Strange disappears and I see the burns that marked Parker—the deep cuts and patterns made in some fucked-up game by people who didn’t care, who laughed at his pain like Ivan’s men did when they beat him. I’m hearing that now, too—the sound of the bats hitting against him, breaking his bones. 

“Did you prevent him from receiving medical treatment?”

Even when I squeeze them shut, the images are imprinted on the other side of my eyelids. He doesn’t understand the weight of having blood on your hands even if you’re not the one who drove in the knife. It appears all the same, and it’s just as impossible to scrub them clean. 

“It was… was _my _fault he was there.” 

Strange moves closer to the edge of his seat, _tutting _at me. “Were you aware of the Joker’s plans? Could you have reasonably foreseen the outcomes beforehand?”

My hands clench into fists, and I’m back to imagining hurting someone else like it might ease my pain. Even knowing that doesn’t mitigate the ferocity of the feeling. 

“You… you _don’t _understand.”

The tears stop and are replaced, like they always are, with quiet rage. 

“I would like to, Miriam.” 

By the sound of his voice, one would expect to see a man reaching out, inviting someone into a safe space, giving an invitation to be vulnerable and the certainty that the information shared will be private, something to build you up instead of tearing you down. 

But I don’t like how he said my name—how similar it is to how _he _used it. How _he _transformed it into an insult. 

Strange’s face isn’t anything like how he was trying to sound. When I look at him, I see the excited look of a doctor whose experiments have gone the way they expected, like their theories are being proven correct. I just don’t know which ones those are. 

“Understanding that you are not personally responsible for the acts of others is an important step in accepting what happened.” His words might have truth in them, but his intentions don’t. “Why will you not do that—place the blame where it is due?” 

_He’s going somewhere with this. Oh no. No, no, no— _

How _stupid _am I? I see now what he’s done, what he’s building to. 

"You are afraid, Miriam." 

I shake my head so hard I get another headrush, overwhelmed by the feeling that it’ll snap off and float where I can’t reach. "No—no, I’m not. " 

_Yes, I am. _

Quiet excitement is written on his features even when everything else is coded to be calm, employing logical reasoning to hide what he really means. The knowledge still doesn’t prepare me for what’s coming out of his mouth. 

"Why have your other psychiatrists failed? Is it because they were inadequately trained?" 

"Well, no—" 

"Were they inappropriate in some manner?" 

I’m cowering back into my chair, trying to get away from him like the cushions will somehow help. I was wrong—my back _is _against the wall. 

_"No—" _

"Then why have you made no progress? Why are you still caught in the same cycles?" 

His questions come quickly, and he stands between me and the window so that his head blocks out what natural light remains, and I don’t have answers. 

"Be honest, Miriam. How much does your anger control you? How many times have you lost control since your ordeal with the Joker?" 

_Leave. _

"You cannot even say his name." His eyes narrow and my legs shake. "Is that not sign enough that he has too much power over you?" 

He’s not saying what he means—there’s more that he’s building to. He’s been playing chess when I thought it was Battleship—Strange studied my moves while I tried hiding and hoped his shots didn’t land. Now I see how stupid it all really was. How stupid _I_ still am. 

_Why did I come here? Why did I tell Bruce I could do this? _

"What are you suggesting?" I shouldn’t have asked at all. 

_Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answers to. _

He smiles, but it's anything but benign. "Confronting the source of your fear—moving past it, getting _closure." _

"Speak plainly," I growl through my teeth. Anger barely clouds the blinding fear, but it doesn’t last. 

"I believe you should confront the Joker." 

I bolt out of the chair—backing away so fast I almost trip on the carpet. He’s not far behind, walking slowly but all I see is menace. 

"No." 

But Strange doesn’t stop. "He would be restrained, guards just outside the door. His feet manacled and neck collared like the dog he is. You would be safe." 

Grabbing my bag and nearly dropping it, I keep moving toward the door. He stalks me like a panther, but it’s not his build that’s unnerving, it’s the way he stares. Strange succeeded where I didn’t want him to—he can see everything. Just like _he _did. He’s seen all he needs to know exactly where to stab.

_"No—" _

"In tandem with sessions with myself—" 

_"You're not listening to me!"_

He finally stops, taken aback by the sudden aggression. And I see why—I’m holding my kubotan and the blade’s sticking out. Tears come with the images in my mind—of how it would feel to sink into him, how much I want him to hurt. Everything in me is close to snapping. 

_Breathe, Miri—stop what you’re doing. You’re not going to hurt anyone. Breathe and put it down. Breathe. _

Taking a large breath through my nose, I contain the physical urge to lay down the serious damage I want to, pulling it back long enough to form my resolve. 

"No. I won't. You can't make me go in a room with him."

But that resolve means nothing if the other person wants to hurt you just as bad. Strange smiles, but it’s more like someone painted it on, an imitation of the real thing. He’s looking at me like I’m—I’m _feral, _he’s looking at me like— 

_No—no, no— _

_‘So alike, you and I. The same in all the ways that matter.’ _

"You cannot move past your own fear because you are unwilling to move forward, wallowing instead in a state of pain and victimhood." 

My mouth opens, trying to find a response in the chaotic mess my mind’s devolved into, barely picking out the meanings now—what’s honest observation and personal attack. Strange still has the benign posture of a _helpful _doctor, someone trying to reach me, and I wish I had let myself stab him. 

"You don't know anything about me," I spit, all but baring my teeth at him. "If you were half as smart as you think you are, you wouldn't need to be such a try-hard to be taken seriously." With a glare full of malice, I finally rip the door open and storm down the hall, almost breaking into a run.

The bright lights nearly blind me, and I keep going down hallways and follow where my legs take me, my mind too far away to be useful. I ram into someone, knocking them against the wall—_Eugene?—_and break out into a near sprint. I need fresh air—I need to see the grass, feel it under my shoes, I need to get out of here before I can’t. Before they lock me in because this is where I belong. 

When I finally find an exit, two TYGER guards stand in front of it, but I don’t stop. They can’t keep me in here. _They can’t, they won’t, they can’t— _

“Let her pass,” a voice calls out from behind me, deep and booming. 

I don’t look back, pushing through the doors just as they stand aside, their eyes following me all the while. The people in the main lobby stare, calling after me, but I don’t hear them. Nothing matters except getting outside. _Nothing. _

As soon as my feet touch the pavement of the parking lot, I double-over and heave. Remnants of the bagel I ate this morning come with bile, burning my throat and making me gag and whimper. 

_Leave, Miri—get out before you can’t. _

Paranoia convinces me that they’re going to drag me back inside, pin me down and throw me in a room I can’t leave, call me _crazy _and then I’ll see—I’ll see him and he can _laugh_. He’ll laugh and tell me that I’m no better, that he won—that he broke me and there’s no going back. 

_No, no, no— _

It’s like I’m back in the arcade—that desperate need to escape, to get out and knowing I won’t be able to, that he’s not far behind and that’s all I’ll ever know. 

They already have the gate up when I tear out of the parking out, driving more erratically than usual. I can hardly see—it’s not just tears, it’s a mirage of images and sounds and memories and my own mind _screaming _at me and I can’t make it stop. I can’t. How did I shove any of this down? Why did I think I ever could? 

_Nothing—you mean _nothing. 

“Stop it,” I growl through my teeth, _“Stop!” _

Slamming on the breaks, I idle on the road, hyperventilating and black spots blocking out what little I can see. 

“Think, Miri. _Please.” _

I knew things at Arkham would be bad—I knew they were crooked. I shouldn’t have taken the pills and crippled myself, but I didn’t do this. _I didn’t. _

“Breathe,” I whisper, inhaling and holding the air in my chest before letting it out. _“Breathe.” _

I’m grateful that this isn’t a busy road, that I have two minutes for my heart rate to slow, for reason to come back to fight the pain and self-imploding spiral I know I’m only delaying. 

_What are you going to do, Miri? _

When I get back to Gotham, I’m either going to drink or take a handful of pills. I know I am, there just… isn’t an option. I can stay calm for a while, but it never lasts. Not when I’m alone. 

_‘And you are alone, aren’t you?’_

But I’m not. _I’m not. _

_Right? _

Hands shaking, I pull out my cell phone. Bruce and Alfred show up first, and I nearly hit dial, but I hesitate. How do I explain this to them without Bruce being convinced that I can’t handle this, that he needs to step in and protect me from things he refuses to admit he can’t? There’s only so much safeguarding he can do against my own brain. Alfred would worry—he’d be upset because I am. They’d both see that I haven’t gotten better at all—I just hide it for short periods of time. 

_Who else is there? _

I want to get lost in something until I don’t know which way is up or down, and I can’t do that. If today was a testament to anything, it’s that they only make me weak, vulnerable. I can’t be any of those things. 

_Never again. _

There’s one more person I can call, someone I don’t have to explain my history to, someone who understands pain as I know it, someone who wants to be around me. 

That’s what I convince myself of, anyway. 

After six times of hitting the talk button and hanging up before it can even connect to the network, I finally build up the nerve. He picks up on the second ring. 

“H-Hey—um, I hope… Hopefully I didn’t catch you at a bad time?” No matter how much I cleared my throat, even I can’t convince myself that I sound anything close to normal. Cringing, I make myself spit it out. "I—I'm sorry to bother you, but are… are you free for the next while?"

* * *

Jason’s ten minutes early, practically jumping in place when I open my apartment door. If it wasn’t for the slight bit of red along his forehead, I wouldn’t have thought he just ran up the stairs. 

“Hey, sunshine,” he says when I let him in, ruffling his hair and scanning the apartment, eyes lingering on any dark corners and the bathroom before landing on me. Jason’s exterior is calm, but the muscles in his forearms are tense. "What's wrong? You sounded rough on the phone." 

I realize he’s looking for the source of what’s upset me; I didn’t give him much of anything to work with when I called, coming up with an excuse on the spot when my brain was already short-circuiting was too much of a task. 

_What do you tell him now? _

I don’t want to lie to him, and I don’t want the truth to break apart the precarious dam I’ve built back up in the last thirty-five minutes. It won’t take much more—and I just need this to stop. 

_Don’t you dare cry. _

Asking for this is physically painful, and I can’t make myself look at him—he’ll see what Strange did, pick apart what’s so blatantly obvious. I’m vulnerable and only making myself more so, exposing the other side for someone else to sink their teeth in. But I want Jason to prove me wrong, I want him to mean what he says. 

"Can you… can you stay with me for a while?” My voice is choked, and it hurts like it did when Zsasz tried to kill me—when _he _tried. The bruises are long gone, but Strange is right—my body still remembers. Taking a shuddering breath and finally looking him in the eyes, I add, “Please?" 

Wiping my sleeve against my cheeks, Jason’s eyebrows furrow. He looks from me to the bed, suspicion and doubt creeping into his expression. "I don't… think that's such a good idea." 

Heat surges up my throat when I remember what we did the last time he was here—what _I _did. Christ, what must he think of me? I didn’t even think about how that would sound to him after all that—and then I call him here without telling him anything and— 

_Fuck—you’re an idiot. _

“Oh, no, no—not like that," I say quickly, waving my hand in the air as if to disperse the idea like it was a cloud of smoke. What do I say? What _can _I say? I don’t know how to ask for help. 

_But you have to try. You can’t keep doing what you’re doing. _

I’m delaying the inevitable, giving myself another few days, maybe a week, before the spiral starts all over again. 

_That doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying, Miri. _

"I just… I can't be alone right now. I—I need—" 

The sob breaks out before I can stop it. Shame and embarrassment hits my knees and almost makes them buckle. I turn away so he doesn’t have to stare at me crying again—I’m going to tell him to leave, to forget that I called, when his arms wrap around me. It isn’t urgent or crushing, just gentle pressure that makes the world quiet again, taking the sharp edge of my thoughts away. 

It’s almost like I’ve forgotten how to return affection like this—but I hug him back, leaning my head against his shoulder as I focus on breathing, taking in the smell of him so the ones branded in my memory can slip away. His hands don’t move from my upper back, not sliding down to my waist or my hips, and his thumb strokes my shoulder. 

"I can stay,” he says into my hair, kissing the top of my head. If it were anyone else, that would have made it worse—but it isn’t just anyone. It’s Jason. I relax into his chest, matching my breathing with his. “Just… don't want you doing anything you don't want to, sunshine." 

Nodding, I hug him a little tighter. "I… need you here,” I whisper, unable to go any louder than that. I can’t remember a time when I said that to anyone. Not when Mom died, not when Bruce abandoned me, not when I failed Parker. “Just until I fall asleep?" 

Jason pulls away slowly, looking as uncertain as I feel. I haven’t slept next to another person in the same bed since I was a kid. The closest I ever got to that was with Parker when he— 

_No, you can’t think about him right now— _

Guilt and anger and grief arrest my heart, shattering what’s left as I step on the remains. Jason guides me to the bed, rubbing my back and sitting us on the edge. I expect him to ask, to pry out my secrets sitting in front of him, easy for the taking. But he doesn’t do that, only lets me lean against him as I try in vain to stop crying. 

"I'm sorry," I breathe, keeping my head down so he doesn’t have to see how pathetic I am. 

_Correction: So you don’t have to see the look on his face when he realizes how big a mistake it was to ever talk to me. _

"For what?" he asks, sounding confused. Leaning down, he tries to look at my face, and I wish I had the long curtains of hair to hide behind. 

I make myself laugh, to blow off how ridiculous I’m being, but even that sounds sad. "For this. I… Thank you." 

Jason is persistent, drawing away marginally until I look at him. I don’t find mocking, no hidden agenda, no malice or enjoyment. He looks sad too, his blue eyes darkening and mouth a firm line. Drawing his legs up and sliding backward on the bed, he props his head up with his arms, staring up at the ceiling. Feeling more sheepish than someone my age should considering all the things I’ve done, I join him. Laying down beside him, a good foot still between us, he drops an arm, inviting me to get closer. My face burns again, my body pleasantly warm, but I take it—sidling next to him and my back fitting against the angles of his chest. 

"Nothing to thank me for and nothing to be sorry about, either, sunshine.” 

His fingers run through my hair, gently pulling it away from my face. It’s this feeling but coming from someone else that made me hack at it, cut my neck and bleed, but I don’t feel any of that with Jason. My body is heavy, but with the weight that someone’s next to me and not sitting on my chest, waiting for me to stop breathing. 

"I didn't sleep at all for months when I got back from tour. Took a lot to knock me out. Took even longer to sleep on my own." His voice is so quiet, his hands keep stroking my hair, and my tired eyes close. 

"Does it get better?" I ask, barely audible as I sink into him more. 

He doesn’t stop, just keeping me close and warming my body with his. 

_‘Don’t… don’t leave me.’ _

My body’s swallowed by the bed, kept warm by Jason’s radiating heat, and I slip away. 

"No, no it doesn't." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yesss, my cruelty is building up to something (finally, I know), and things are starting to head toward a major point of conflict... and you'll see _exactly_ where things start to get exciting in chapter 16 (because I'm very mean - sorry, y'all!). And yes, Strange was being incredibly serious about Miri confronting the Joker. 👀 But I'm gonna leave you all in suspense as to how that works into his plans for now! For the moment, Joker's still haunting Miri's thoughts as much as she does his, and it's all gonna come together, promise ;D. 
> 
> Thank you again for reading, everybody! Your support means a lot. I'll see you in a couple of weeks! 💖


	13. Ode to Perfection

"Well?" Strange asked, looking up from his task to meet Crane's eyes. "You have been oddly silent. Do not tell me you are… _ unsatisfied _ with the progress made?" 

Crane had to admit, watching Strange's session with Miriam Kane had brought back memories of his own when he had run Arkham, how he toyed with his patients then, too. He had taken away much from their first meeting as he’d watched the playback on the CCTV feed, but Strange had gleaned more than he was letting on. 

"You weren't very careful. There were a few moments when I thought she was _ actually _ going to attack you." Crane examined his fingernails, looking for nonexistent traces of dirt. It would've been more expedient if she _ had _stabbed Strange, but he wouldn't hold it against her. There were still plenty of opportunities for it to happen again. 

Strange chuckled, flipping over a page on his clipboard to take more notes. "Yes, she is certainly as unbalanced as you theorized, Jonathan. It did not take much to find her weak points. 0801's insights proved fruitful as well." 

Crane's eye twitched, just as it always did when Strange referred to him by his first name. Once meant as a slight and then to connote familiarity, he had learned early on to keep his complaints to himself, to mark them as they transpired for recompense. And Crane would, there was no doubt in his mind about that, no matter how close they might have become. He thought about what _ exactly _he'd like to do as he examined the man in the chair resting between them. 0937 was coming along nicely—well, nicely for Strange. 

Completely docile, one might have thought he was asleep if not for his eyes being open, empty as they were. The majority never made it to this phase, not that Crane had helped in the matter, and the ones who did were startling in their similarities in behaviour. The violent psychosis that characterized the first two phases was the most volatile and open to failure. That phase provided ample opportunity to test his formula, perfect it further. Once they reached Phase 3, however, they were not the same person; not mentally, anyhow. It was then that the experiments entered the macabre, and Crane's only wish in the affair was that the Joker was still in the programme—if there was a man in need of _ curing, _as Strange argued they were doing, it was him. 

No matter. Crane was determined to be gone in the coming weeks—and it would be before these experiments saw the light of day. _That _had been where Crane focused his efforts for the last eight months, but there was only so much he could sabotage without giving himself away. Strange's obsessive and obstinate determination to continue the impossible also did much of Crane's work for him. Biding his time was the most important task, and he was nothing if not patient. 

He made certain to check 0937's vitals, ensuring he was stable even if he wasn't lucid, marking it down as he always did. Crane's cultivation of a perfectly impassive expression was a source of pride, and it hadn't failed him yet. 

"He's as ready as he'll ever be," Crane said, standing next to Strange. 

They would need to be in the other room where a thick steel door and reinforced glass would keep any risk to themselves minimal. They'd learned that lesson early when Crane had altered the dosages, without telling Strange of course, and the bloody aftermath had led them to their first lost test subject. Before that, it had been small alterations and purposely not making potent enough toxins to elicit the reactions Strange had wanted. But Crane had learned to be more careful after that first death. No sense in _him _dying if the purpose was to escape. 

Enduring the trials of Phase 3, 0937 was ready to advance to the final phase—if he survived the next round of testing, anyway. The key to remaining undetected was always maintaining the illusion of usefulness and allowing Strange the occasional success, even when it was stomach-turning. Crane was not one to preach on the importance of ethics or even the sanctity of human life, but that did not mean that he enjoyed what they were doing. His interests lay in examining fear, its effect on the mind, and how to control it. There was nothing to be gained from experimenting on the lobotomized, and he had grown weary of the exercise over a period of weeks. 

"No, it doesn't take much when a person wears their anger so clearly on their face." He knew what was coming, felt the stirring of his brain, the prick of scientific inquiry, the clench in his stomach as anticipation turned into anxiety, but he didn’t give anything away. If anything, he became colder. "It's as I said—she won't be difficult to manipulate. You've planted the seed and now we wait to watch it grow." 

Strange nodded, but his focus wasn’t in the room. "Yes, monitoring the situation will be imperative." He sounded far away, lost in thought. He was normally quite focused when it came to his _play _sessions; something was amiss. 

"You seem distracted."

"Do I?" He shook his head back and forth slowly, blinking as if he were just waking. "Miriam revealed something I do not believe she intended," he said, fingers stroking his chin in thought. 

"Such as?" 

A wry grin, another rare sight, was Crane’s only answer until he raised an eyebrow. "I am… _ closer _to my original aims. That is all I will say for now. Confirmation is still required," he said at last. 

_ Not good enough, _Crane thought. 

Strange’s _original aims _included cryptic allusions to an ancient bat-god and monologuing on curing the incurable using a journal written by a deranged man who had become a patient of his own asylum; how a conversation with Miriam Kane benefitted that escaped Crane. 

"After all this, you won't share your suspicions with me?" 

Crane played at being offended, even slightly hurt. They _have _been working together for a year, and there were many nights spent in Strange’s office drinking wine and theorizing about the limits and potentials of the human psyche. Those were moments that Crane didn’t entirely resent, sometimes he even actively sought them out, eager for the company and stimulation, and Strange was his only opportunity to even taste the remnants of the life he used to have. What it was for Strange was something Crane had guessed at, and he still hadn't determined his feelings on the matter. 

"Patience, Jonathan. Everything comes in time." 

Strange smiled and Crane made himself return it, but his suspicions were still roused. Batman was also part of their initial discussions. There were animosity and bitterness on Crane’s end—it _was _his fault that he was in Arkham in the first place—but it was different for Strange. His admiration ran deeper—that much became clear during their sessions with the Joker—and Crane knew an obsession when he saw one. Yes, it was something they shared, but all of Strange’s talk of perfection, evolving into something greater—it lent to an eerie parallel with Victor Frankenstein, a figure Crane had admired in his youth: Experimenting with forces that should remain untouched, aiming for heights that should always stay out of reach. Crane could see the value in admitting limitations; Strange could not. 

_ And _that _is where my advantage lies, _he thought. 

"Shall we begin?" he asked. Crane was playing at something dangerous, indulging and perpetuating a game that he was simultaneously undercutting, but there was more at stake than the possibility of spending the foreseeable future in Arkham. 

Moving into the observation room, they locked the door behind them. TYGER guards stood outside the lab, just in case the patient needed subduing, but they tried to limit their involvement as much as possible. There was nothing to be gained by having too many witnesses with potentially loose tongues, no matter how much they were paid. 

"0937, Protocol 1: Initiate," Strange said, pressing down on the intercom button so that his voice resounded in the lab, the accent taking on an odd lilt as it bounced off the bleached tile. 

"Yes, doctor." 

The man in the chair, who might as well have been dead, sat up straight and swung his legs around before standing. 0937 stared that the wall, as empty-eyed as before. This was usually when the seizures began, the bleeding from the eyes and ears. 

Crane made himself stand still as Strange tilted his head to the side, his pen only stopping to press down the button to speak as he made his notations in tight and looping cursive. "Protocol 9: _ Desolate." _

"Yes, doctor." 

The man’s voice was monotone and even, completely emotionless, as Strange intended. The chip actively suppressed the production of dopamine, serotonin, any brain activity that would lead to emotional outbursts, or the ability to feel anything at all—and their pliability allowed for _cognitive retraining _as Strange put it. But Crane knew better. 

They watched as he walked towards the far wall. 1309 sat, unmoving and doll-like, as 0937 approached. She had been one of their more recent additions to the study, but had been less successful. Strange suspected she would die soon; it was too late to take her out of the programme, too far gone and the damage irreversible. Crane would have preferred something more… _ humane _in dealing with failed subjects, but Strange did not share his sentiments in that matter, either. 

0937 didn't stop until he was right in front of her, his hands pressing on either side of her skull, and he began to squeeze. 

Crane's stomach turned, acid rose in his throat as he swallowed the bile back down. Fear was what drove life, the desire to survive—it was the heart of everything, the marker that reveals one's true self. He revelled in it; fear was something to savour. But there was none of that here. Just those stripped of everything they were until they became nothing more than puppets. 

1309 screamed as a sickening _crack _echoed in the room, the white floors weeping red. The chips didn't take away any pain, not at that threshold. Soon, she made no sounds at all, and 0937 stood, hands still wrapped in her hair and staring ahead without seeing, his face and chest spattered with thick scarlet that dripped from his eyelashes.

"0937, Protocol 2: Jest," Strange said, speaking into the intercom again. The patient's arms dropped and 1309's body fell to the floor, her head making a soft _ squelch _ sound as it landed. 

"Yes, doctor." 

Cold sweat collected down Crane's back at the sight of Strange's smile. Crane's face was neutral when Strange directed his gaze back at him, and he hoped he didn't notice how his skin had certainly gone two shades paler.

"It seems we have our first Phase 4 patient," he said. His elation was evident, and Crane summoned his own quiet excitement in a raised eyebrow and a small upward jerk of one corner of his mouth with effort. 

"It seems we do."

Fear had a resounding impact on him, left him as weak to it as he'd been as a young boy—when he had sworn he wouldn't feel like that again. He could still feel its potency, the urge to be very far away. It was different than when Batman had dosed him with his own toxin; this feeling was more insidious, dread that curled in his stomach like a snake rather than a rush of hallucinogenic delusion. The room would be hosed down, the body disposed of—more discreetly than how Crane had done before—and he watched the blood pool and collect in the centre of the floor to the large drain, knowing it wouldn't be long before they would begin again. 

And Crane knew, and had from the beginning, that very little kept him from being the one in the chair. Or worse: the one having his skull crushed and being powerless to stop it. 

Strange’s voice was deep and melodic, and if it were not for the gore in the other room, no one would have guessed that he had just ordered a murder. "One step closer to curing them of their impurities. It will not be much longer, I believe. We are so _ very _close." 

Crane was still figuring out what that entirely meant, and he wanted to be gone before he ever found out the answer. 

* * *

Legs cramping and the gun heavy in his hands, Paulie Byrne adjusted his head from its position against the scope of his sniper rifle. His knees were aching and the rain had soaked through his _ supposedly _waterproof jacket after the first forty-five minutes. 

_ Christ, Gotham’s a shithole, _he thought. 

Summers so hot you could cook bacon on the hood of your car, damp, frozen hellscapes in winter, the sky pissing rain in the spring—that just left two decent months in the fall where it rained _slightly _less. 

_ Seriously, why do you agree to these things? _

Paulie regretted taking the job with Black Mask and it had barely been two weeks. Taking a bullet to the thigh, watching the entire crew he’d just joined getting lit up like a goddamn bonfire, and then almost getting shot _again _when he got picked up—he hadn’t made this many regrettable life choices in such a short period of time before. 

And he was about to make more. 

The last time Paulie had used a gun like this, it was hunting elk with his uncle as a teenager. He didn’t want to tell Black Mask that he couldn’t do the job—not after what he had seen in the aftermath of the Gotham Docks fire and what happened the night of the shoot-out. 

_ “Movement?” _He winced from the feedback noise as Dag Petrović chimed in.

They were four hours early, but Black Mask didn’t want to take any chances. 

“Yeah—got three on the top floor, eleven on the second, and I think I clocked eight in the club.” He adjusted the scope again, wiping the rain from his eyes. 

_“Y’sure,_ prijatelj?” Dag’s Croatian accent was thick, and Paulie had to listen hard to hear past the downpour. 

“Best I can count.” Dag started laughing on the other end and Paulie didn’t want this to devolve into some kind of eighth-grade mocking session. “They’re getting ready, two cars just pulled around into the back alley—Cadillac and Mercedes.”

_ “Almost party time.” _

The shiver that went up Paulie’s body wasn’t just from the cold. He had kept his finger far away from the trigger, but he knew that’d be changing soon. 

_ “You see opening when things start, take it. Boss wants 'em gone, no matter what.” _

He’d had to memorize a half-dozen photos the day before—all the faces of the people who’d flipped. Red Hood wanted to swat at the king, and now it was time to quash him. Permanently. 

Paulie wasn’t one for malice, but he was unabashedly all about self-preservation. If things went sideways… 

_ Don’t think about that. _

But Paulie had seen what Black Mask did when he was angry. He had tried to forget what was left of the woman’s face by finding the bottom of several glasses of whiskey, but the entire purpose of it was so that he _wouldn’t _forget what happened when mistakes were made.

_ Don’t screw up. _

“I won’t miss.” 

Jahan Shaddid, Teddy Donahay and Warren White would be dead by the end of the night—every turncoat who had been dumb enough to switch sides. Red Hood wanted to burn Black Mask’s house, and now he was about to have his reduced to ash. 

* * *

James Gordon didn't know if migraines were meant to last this long, but he was sure this wasn't natural. 

Stress was a constant as a police officer in Gotham City, he’d learned that early, and it seemed to be a second skin that kept getting tighter the higher he rose in the ranks. He rubbed his temples, aching for a strong glass of bourbon and a cigarette as he tried to listen to Harvey Bullock. 

“—they narrowed down the make of the bike from the tire tracks and CCTV footage, but no sign of where it went. They're going through the DMV database for a list of registered owners with a matching model.” 

Bullock flipped through the large file in his hands and pulled out the photos they had taken from the cameras after the shooting in Crime Alley. All they had was that elusive glimpse of Red Hood's mask before shadow and poor video quality obscured the rest. Gordon nodded as Bullock spoke, dedicating the details to memory. 

"Blood is a goddamn clusterfuck—have some individual hits from the guys in the morgue, but the rest is one big mess they can't pull—" 

A loud ringing drowned out Bullock’s voice, temporarily blinding Gordon as his vision went white. He made himself snap to attention and ignore the halos emanating from the lights in the room that burned his eyes. 

_ What I wouldn't give to lie in the dark for seventy-two hours. _

“Surveillance confirms our intel—the meeting happening tonight at the Amaseena is big enough that there’s an increase in chatter, reprisals are expected and all that. This shit gets old after a while.”

He fought through the pain, pushing it aside as something to deal with later. Everything that wasn’t first priority was relegated to a corner in the back of his head, his own health included. “That’s why we have tactical teams and task forces. We don’t want another shoot-out—we get in quick and make the arrests before anything happens.”

They’d determined that Red Hood was the instigator of the Crime Alley shoot-out, and they had begun to link him to the rising influx of violent crime. Arson, homicide, acts of domestic terrorism, and incitement made Red Hood dangerous. For a new player, he had amassed a following quickly, but now direct confrontations were on the table. Gordon knew they needed to move in quickly, the ultimatum from Hill notwithstanding. 

“Did Warren give you anything?” Gordon asked, digging through the piles of paper for the arrest sheet. 

Warren White, forty-five years old and leader of _ The Sharks_, had been arrested at the Gotham airport the night before. He had been trying to flee to Argentina, and Gordon needed to know why. Racketeering, smuggling, conspiracy to commit murder, and illegal loan sharking were the biggest charges. He’d been looking to arrest White for years—why he’d expose himself by trying to run spoke to the precarious position Gotham found itself in. 

“Not until I waved a twenty-five to life sentence in his face and then offered protection. Goddamn rat.” Bullock grinned, pleased that he had something positive to report. He scratched his chin. “Got names of other head-honchos working with Hood—Shaddid ain’t the only one.” 

Nodding, Gordon kept staring at the sea of words, the figures and endless photos and lists of evidence. “Did he say _ why _he was trying to leave?” 

Bullock ran his fingers through his dirty hair, sighing loudly before continuing. “Yeah—kinda.”

_ “‘Kinda’?” _

He clicked his tongue. “Just said that he sees the way the wind was blowin’. Means he knew he’d be dead anyway. Managed to piss off Mask _ and _ Hood.” Gordon looked at him over the top of his glasses, fingers stilling as he paused. Bullock rolled his eyes. “He _claims _he never saw either dude’s face—just that they both have a fetish for masks. One apparently looks part of some kinda gimp suit—”

“Stay on topic, Bullock.”

Gordon had been relying on him more as the pressure increased. There were leaks in the GCPD, but Bullock didn’t disappoint, he seemed to be exactly what he claimed: a straight-shooter. He hoped his sense of optimism wouldn’t bite him in the ass this time. He needed more allies than Batman alone. Gordon had found that once in Gerard Stephens. The guilt and failure Gordon felt over his death still stung. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, waving a hand and muttering _ killjoy _before continuing, “He’s terrified of Mask but Hood’s got more of a hankering for immediate payback—”

“What did he do?”

He had to give him credit, Bullock took Gordon interrupting him in stride. “Hood has rules about involving kids, Warren says. He didn’t listen too well.” 

_ Killer with a conscience, who knew, _Gordon thought. 

“He confirmed the meetin’ tonight—says that things are getting too hot. My guess is he’s not the only one pissing their pants.” 

_ Great, just what we needed. _

His head throbbed, pulsing behind his eyes until it felt like the pressure might force them out. Building a case to take down one kingpin was hard enough, dealing with two caught in a pissing match with a body count was a logistical nightmare. It didn't help that they had taken one too many pages out of Batman's book. Mayor Hill wasn’t helping matters, either. She'd already gone over his head, leaked one story to the news about the Gotham Docks fire while actively suppressing the investigation into the evident foul play. At least he knew who had bought a good deal of the moles in the GCPD. 

"Finish getting the task force ready," Gordon said, picking up another one of the files and examining what he’d almost completely memorized. They needed more arrests, it wouldn’t be long until innocent civilian populations were dragged into the imminent gang war. Bullock looked at him in surprise. "They're breaching Location 3 and 4 tonight; we have the warrants, and I need you with Team 2." 

Team 2 was the one assigned to the Amaseena. Jahan Shaddid wasn’t the player he used to be, but he was another man that should have been behind bars years ago, and Gordon wished, not for the first time, that Harvey Dent had lived up to the promise he inspired. Gotham was on the edge of backsliding into a place worse than it had ever been before—that couldn’t happen. Gordon wouldn’t allow it. 

"You sure?" Bullock asked, raising his thick eyebrows. 

"I wouldn't have assigned it otherwise. Work with Sergeant Benning, he's done this before, but _you _keep me in the loop. I need a reliable set of eyes and ears." 

"Yeah, you got it, chief—" 

“Commissioner?" Patricia, still fresh-faced and free from the disillusionment that came after a year of working at the GCPD, peeked her head into his office and knocked on the other side of the glass. 

He held up a hand for Bullock to wait. "We're in the middle of—" 

"It's related. Homeland sent someone from the fusion centre." 

_ It's about goddamn time. _

"Send him in." 

Gordon didn’t understand why she rolled her eyes until he realized that it was a woman that they’d sent, and not just any woman. He had thought that he’d never be able to get her to the station of her own volition, but she surprised him once again.

"Um… Nice to see you again," she said when Patricia opened the door wide enough to let her in. 

Her hair short and wearing a dark red turtleneck that swallowed her torso, she looked healthier than the frail-looking girl he had met at Gotham First National Bank, but her eyes had a hard glint in them now. 

_ Why the hell is Miriam Kane in my office? _

Gordon froze in his chair, but Bullock didn’t feel the same shock.

"Wait, ain’t this the chick that Jok—”

“Detective.” Gordon raised a hand, recovering enough to tear his eyes away from Miriam to stare hard at Bullock. His lack of decorum wouldn’t be useful here. “Go to Team 2, report when you’re in position.” 

Bullock opened his mouth to argue, looked to Miriam, thought better of it, grabbed his coat and gave Gordon a wave and her an awkward grin before rushing out. She followed him out with her eyes, taking everything in the office with apprehension. Her body was tense, wrapped up in itself like a spring coiled too tight, and she held her bag like it was a shield.

"Miss Kane," he said, startling her. Whatever thoughts that were racing through her head disappeared and she looked younger, more hesitant. Somehow, she reminded him of his daughter Eileen. "You're with Homeland now?" he asked after she sat down, folding his hands together on his desk. 

"Yeah—well, kind of. Just over a year now." She was still finding her footing, her voice uncertain. Wringing her hands, she couldn’t look him in the eyes. "Cybercrimes forensics investigator. I'm… looking into the digital side of the investigation." 

Any anger or frustration he had held onto in the months after the Siege, at the inability to build a straightforward case and have the one person who could testify to everything the Joker had done and put him away in Blackgate for life, drained out of Gordon. He couldn’t look at her without thinking of the evidence photos—the ones taken at Mayor Garcia’s house and the hospital after that: Small pools of her blood and her shredded clothes, large lacerations across her thighs and arms, the dark bruises on her throat, the bullet wound on her left side. They hadn't done a rape kit at the hospital because she had refused, but that didn't stop him from considering the possibility. He tried his best not to look at her chest.

"You are aware of your position in all of this? How it makes things… complicated?" he asked, clearing his throat. That was the most tactful way he could put it, and her attempt at smiling turned into a grimace. 

“Unfortunately, yeah.” Gordon wasn’t the only one whose skin felt too tight, and he didn’t miss the bitterness in her tone. “Colonel Matsumoto thought it was a good idea. Something about _ history _and all that.” 

Matsumoto—that’s who he had first spoken with when he requested federal assistance, but she had never mentioned that Miriam worked for her. The only reason Miriam hadn’t had any charges laid or been compelled to appear in court was because of DOJ and DOD interference. He had been told to simply make the case without her. Why they had her bouncing around for Homeland now was beyond him. 

He had so many questions that he’d been waiting to ask, but he set them aside. This wasn’t the right time, and the fallout had temporarily become more pressing than the inciting incident. “Are you part of the liason team?” 

Miriam visibly relaxed, her shoulders drawing down from her ears and the lines of her face softening in relief. “Now I am. I’ve been part of looking into the website, tracking what they’re selling. The… recent developments are making it difficult to trace the origins of the stock and who’s running it—it’s all but dead right now.”

Leaning down, she dug into the bag at her feet before adding a sizable stack of files to the ones already plaguing his desk and placed several dossiers between them.

“We’ve tracked suppliers back to arms dealers in Russia and Mozambique and heroin producers in Afghanistan. Intel says they don’t deal in names, either, it’s all through third-parties and dark web transactions.” She pointed to unfamiliar faces, close-shots of men in boats taken from drones, lists of locations and criminal network branches. “DOD and Homeland are concerned because of the obvious terrorist connections—foreign arms and drugs filing in is nothing new but still not the most desirable thing.” 

The woman speaking in front of him really was different than he remembered; she wasn’t even the same as when she first walked in. This was someone who was in their element, absorbed in the task in front of them. It was a trait he looked for in prospective detectives. 

“The fact that the site sells RPGs and anti-aircraft guns isn’t very assuring, either.” Miriam made careful motions to make sure the skin on her arms wasn't exposed, that she kept everything tight and controlled. He was glad for it; he could barely look at her without guilt sending another throb through his head. Pushing the short strands of her hair behind her ears, she sat back in her chair, the self-consciousness returning.

“That tracks. Several safe houses we believe belonged to Black Mask have been hit in the last two weeks,” Gordon said, pulling out files of his own for her to examine. “We can only go off what we recover. There’s never any witnesses left. None who talk, anyhow.” 

The statement seemed to trouble Miriam. Chin resting in her hand, she looked lost in thought for a moment before speaking. “There _ is _some good news in this: we can’t find a financial backer.” 

“Meaning?” he asked. Despite himself, Gordon began to forget who he was talking to, what she had done.

“Meaning that there’s no foreign money source that’s funding them. They’re homegrown.” The excitement was back, the spark of investigative curiosity. Gordon remembered suddenly what he had told her back when he took her statement the first time at the bank. “Gotham’s the point of entry and distribution—they’re likely located here.” 

“Black Mask is local?” He sat back, mulling the information. Things began to click for Gordon; a path lit up in the fog that clouded his mind. 

“I think so, yeah. There was a significant power vacuum to fill after…” Miriam trailed off, turning hesitant again. She bit her lip hard enough that he thought it might bleed before taking a deep breath. “After everything. Most of the old players are dead or gone. You’re running point on the investigation, where do you want me to look?" 

It was because he knew what she had done, and what had happened with Wuertz and Ramirez, that Gordon wanted to keep his cards close to his chest, even if she was with Homeland, or whatever government branch they had her sourced in. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re already thinking?” 

Miriam opened her mouth to speak but closed it quickly, her eyes lingering on his face. She could tell he was holding back, and she retreated in on herself as her brows furrowed. Gordon knew that much of what happened wasn't her fault, but he didn't know the finer details, who was responsible for what, but he knew all too well that information going to the wrong person would quickly turn into a disaster. 

"We have a profile, but I'm still searching for… people to dig into. How… how big of a scope are you attributing to this?" she asked eventually, raising an eyebrow as she worried over her naked ring finger, twisting it like there was a band there to shift. 

“You want a suspect list?”

“Do you have one?” 

Now Miriam was being just as coy as Gordon was. He nodded noncommittally. “Depends.”

They stared at one another, Miriam deciding how much she could push and Gordon considering how much he should give. He _was _asking for federal help, their resources would be the only way he could meet Hill’s deadlines. Just as he pushed aside his stubborn resolve, Miriam gave in first. 

“We think it’s someone with large amounts of capital—someone who wasn’t part of the _ old guard _ or whatever you want to call it.” Her arms were still wrapped around herself, but she leaned forward again and her gaze darted from the files between them to his before looking down again. “New money, or people without deep connections to the Mob, newcomers to town, you know… _ that _type.”

He rubbed his jaw in thought. “The rich type? Like your cousin?” 

Gordon had only meant it as a half-joke, but Miriam’s burst of laughter surprised him. Her shoulders shook as her chest rocked with the fit of giggling. He didn’t think his poor attempt at humour warranted that kind of reaction, and it worried him. It wasn’t even a sound of joy, but rather one of bitterness and irony. He felt like he’d missed the punchline. 

Finally gaining control of herself, the occasional giggle still breaking through, she wiped at her eyes before the grin turned sardonic. “Bruce would make the world’s worst criminal.” 

Bruce Wayne was a playboy who spent his time dating local celebrities that he exchanged for someone new after a month, bought and then wrecked luxury cars, and skipped town for weeks at a time for high profile vacations in the Caribbean or South Pacific islands. 

“Well… if anything the tabloid’s say is true, I’d disagree with that.” 

The type of crime Wayne would be into would be white-collar—taking expensive drugs, DUIs, likely some tax evasion in there, and whatever else billionaires didn’t care to learn the consequences of before doing it. If there was any truth to that at all, anyhow. It struck him for the first time how different Miriam was from that image, how she didn’t seem to fit it at all. 

When Senator Hawkes had given him the heads-up that she was coming back, he had expected a media frenzy—it would have made her easier to track—but he hadn’t heard anything since she’d ‘attacked’ Jack Ryder. He had declined to press charges after Gordon brought up several pending complaints of stalking, witness tampering, and harassment. Adding to the circus that the Gotham nightly news had become was a concern, but he also didn’t think anyone needed to know she was back. He didn’t know what would happen if the city knew she was.

“Best plan is always to follow the money. It leads to someone here, and if we can’t get into the site’s servers and trace it back for now, then we find suspects and work our way down the list,” she said.

Gordon worked hard to move past the splitting pain in his head. The lights still hadn’t lost their halo, and he had a metallic taste on his tongue that he tried to wash away with cold coffee. "New money… after the Siege, several companies moved headquarters out of Gotham completely." He was taking his mind back, remembering all the scandal and fear that had followed in the wake of Gotham struggling to recover. "There aren't many now, just Frederick Dumas, Mia D'Antonio, Roman Sionis and—" 

Miriam straightened, almost coming out of her chair entirely. "Roman Sionis as in Janus Cosmetics?" Gordon nodded, pulling up everything he knew about the man. He could almost see the gears turning in her head. "They just beat a lawsuit. Do you have info on that?" 

He thought for a moment, narrowing his eyes in consideration. “They sent out a product that they hadn’t properly tested, it caused some serious chemical burns. It was run by his father, Richard Sionis, until just over a year ago before he died in a fire.” Miriam nodded along, pulling out a notepad from her bag and making short notes for herself. “They were an old Gotham family, and Roman was running a sister branch in Chicago.” 

"When did he move here?" she asked, her pen never stopping. 

"Sixteen, seventeen months ago, he—" The meaning clicked in for Gordon, and Miriam looked close to giving him a genuine smile. "You think _ he _could be the one?" 

"I don't want to point fingers without being sure.” She abandoned the notepad for her laptop, her face awash in the blue light of the screen. “When did Black Mask start becoming active?" 

He could see where she was going with this, and his mind was working to see how it fitted with the rest of what he knew. "It happened at the same time." 

The idea solidified in Gordon’s mind. It would still need substantiating, but this was the closest he’d managed to get to determining who to sic the dogs on. Taking one of the two major problems out of the equation would leave the rest of the investigation in a good place to succeed. Gordon needed a win. _ Gotham _needed a win. 

"I'll look into him, see what I can find out with some surveillance and digging through his company and personal networks." She shut the lid of her laptop and quickly added, “WIth the proper warrants, of course. Naomi will greenlight it—it’s the first real lead we’ve had for these masked idiots.” 

Gordon chuckled quietly in agreement, the pain behind his eyes easing. Miriam shoved her files and laptop back in her bag and rose to leave, but as he went to thank her and head out himself to sleep in some back office somewhere, she sat back down. Wringing her hands, she looked even more uncomfortable than she had before. 

"Are there… ongoing or related investigations that you haven't disclosed?" 

Gordon leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. 

_ Where’s this coming from? _

His suspicions rose. She hadn’t given the impression before, but now he was certain she’d done something she wasn’t supposed to. 

_ Again. _

"You could just break in and look, couldn't you?" 

His voice was hard, and for all he knew she _had _gone through everything, pilfered what she needed and used this as an excuse to take back what she wanted to the fusion centre. But Miriam’s cheeks darkened, tinges of pink and red running down her neck. 

"I… I could. But I don't… I didn’t want to." When she finally glanced upward, she looked younger again, vulnerable, like she was in a great deal of pain.

"How do you know I'll be honest, that what I tell you is all there is?" he asked, his tone slightly softer. 

Her laugh was self-deprecating, but her smile was genuine. "Because you're a better person than I am." 

It was Gordon’s turn to laugh, but her gaze was steady. After what had happened, he didn’t think he was much better at all, but he didn’t really know who he was comparing himself to. 

"Yes, there are some.” 

He couldn’t bring himself to regret doubting her, but he started digging through the stacks on his desk, creating a new pile. One of them included the explosion from the Gotham Docks—the first report, not the one that had replaced it. Mayor Hill wouldn’t be happy that he was giving them to Miriam, but he had no plans on telling Hill anything unless asked directly. 

"What about the fire from the warehouse district? Was that another ‘accident’?" she asked after she had gone through the stack. 

Gordon felt duped again. How she managed to disarm his anger and doubt only to make him scramble to raise them again was borderline infuriating, but she cut him off before he could speak. 

"I work in cyber intelligence, I… I have my ways. I didn’t break into your systems to get it, let’s just leave it at that." 

_ Is this worth pushing? _

He didn’t know what other methods of information gathering she possessed, but at least he could be sure she wasn’t working for Arianna Hill, no matter how unconvincing Miriam was when she had answered. Gordon had to remind himself that they were working towards the same goal. 

"Arson, double homicide." No sooner than the words left his mouth, Miriam looked like she’d been slapped, her skin losing its colour as she paled. For a moment, he thought she’d faint. "Are you alright?" 

"Yeah… yeah." She sounded half asleep, like she was stuck in a state of dreaming. Her eyes were staring at nothing, knuckles going white as she gripped her hands together. "Some things are just… hitting too close to home," she said eventually, making herself smile. But it was hollow. 

He was just about to ask her to clarify what exactly she meant, maybe get some answers after all, when Detective Murphy burst through his office door. 

“We got a 10-71 and 10-80 happening at Location 3. Multiple 10-53s for Team 2,” he said, out of breath. 

_ Explosions and shots fired? _

And his men were down. God knew how many others, too. 

_ Bullock. _

He hadn't called, and Gordon's mind went to the worst-case scenario—he had to. Nothing ever went the way it was supposed to in Gotham. 

"Who got shot?" Miriam asked, staring in panic between him and Murphy. "Gordon, what's happening?" 

Bolting out of his chair, Gordon grabbed his tactical vest from a cabinet and his pistol from his desk drawer. "Call the JTTF, Miss Kane." He didn't know who fired first, but it didn't matter at this point, he couldn't use half-measures. He swallowed hard as he loaded a magazine and checked the chamber before holstering his gun. "Send them to the Amaseena. We'll meet them there." 

Miriam looked like Gordon struck her, but he couldn't deal with that now. He had to minimize the damage and casualties, and he was already wasting too much time. 

"Murphy, stay here with Miss Kane." She might look like she was about to fall over, but she was too much of a wildcard. Her father might not be in her life, but he wouldn't take chances, not this time. "She doesn't leave this room or touch a computer until I get back. Get the JTTF and nothing else. Cuff her if you need to." 

She shot out of her chair in protest, moving to follow after him, but Murphy held her back and Gordon was already out the door. 

* * *

Jahan Shaddid barely had time to get behind his desk when the bullets ripped through the Amaseena. 

He hadn’t even wanted the meeting to happen there—he’d told Red Hood that it was too out in the open, they couldn’t defend it from a full-on assault. Red Hood had responded by offering to shatter his other knee. 

“Oh no, looks like we’ve been _ bamboozled, _ boys and girls!” Red Hood had said when the shooting started, kicking over a table and setting up his AS50 to return fire.“What _ ever _ should we do about that?” Despite the voice modulator, Red Hood had sounded glad, _ eager _for the catastrophe raining down on their heads. 

_ Laqit majnun, _ Jahan had thought as he readied himself, braced in order to prepare for the siege that would come. He had been shot several times before, had led and _won _several shoot-outs and drive-bys of his own, but nothing like this. 

_ Allahum aghfir li. _

But Jahan was certain Allah wasn’t listening to him. 

And now here he was, holding a Glock and hoping to Allah that the shells didn’t pierce the wood he hid behind. Most of his men were dead on the floor—shot by snipers through the windows. Hood throwing him to the ground was what had saved him from joining the others in varying stages of bleeding out. 

Donahay was across the street outside; he’d been tasked with ensuring they wouldn’t be outflanked. Jahan didn’t think he had succeeded. This whole thing was doomed to go tits up from the beginning, and he couldn’t help but think that Hood planned for it this way. 

_ Nadhil 'ahmar. _

_ “'Iinahum qadimun!” _one of his men shouted over the deafening hail of gunfire. 

More rapid bursts came from the stairwell across the room, followed close behind by the sound of bodies dropping and voices screaming. Jahan couldn’t tell who was winning, he certainly knew that Red Hood had not brought enough men, and his body wasn’t what it had been—he couldn’t go and fight himself in any effective way. 

_ How did I get here? _

His entire life’s work was quite literally being shot down; any propensity he would have had in the past to blame this on Hood or his rivals became irrelevant. Everything he had built for almost twenty years was being reduced to nothing. And Jahan could _do _nothing. 

“Looks like I’m gonna have to ruin _ someone’s _day.” 

Jahan looked up, barely peeking his head out over the desk as bullets whizzed by, to see Red Hood jump over his cover and roll to the outside wall. He was holding something that made his jaw drop. He hadn’t seen anything like that outside of the video games he had played when he was drunk or the American movies he had watched as a teen. 

Red Hood had an M32 grenade launcher. And he had it pointed out the window. 

He heard the explosion before he saw it. The edge of the roof on the building opposite cratered, creating a hole in the brick and leaving it shaking. Hood aimed down, shooting at the men below. The aftershocks rocked Jahan’s teeth together. 

A group of men in black burst through the door leading to the stairwell, guns raised, but Hood was ready for them. Rolling again and keeping low, he shot the two remaining rounds—not caring who was or wasn’t there. Debris went flying and smoke filled the room, and Jahan recognized the smell of charred skin. 

_ Liusaeidni Allah. _

Red Hood had meant it in a much more literal sense when he said they were going to war. 

After the dust settled, Red Hood stood, swinging the M32 to rest on his shoulder and exhaling loudly. “Gonna have to try harder than that, aren’t they?” he said, kicking the boots of one of his dead men by the stairwell. Jahan swallowed the bile when he saw the leg wasn’t attached to its owner anymore. Brushing the dirt off his sleeves, he directed his attention to Jahan. “Move it, old man. A little smoke never killed anyone.” 

Jahan stared at him in disbelief. This wasn’t the first time he’d been afraid of Red Hood. He hated admitting it to himself, and would’ve tried taking a shot at him if this had been three years prior, but he felt terrified. His pride had already taken a hit when he signed up with Black Mask, was undercut again when he flipped sides to Red Hood to save his own skin, and now was entirely nonexistent. 

He couldn’t help but think of how Miriam had looked at him on the street, the obvious disappointment. There had been a day he would have had someone beaten for that, the insult of thinking he wasn’t enough, but those days were gone. 

“Get up. Won’t be long till we’re swarmed—they’ve got JTTFs on the way and who the fuck knows when Bats is gonna show,” Red Hood said, loading a new magazine into his AS50 after strapping the M32 to across his back. 

“JTTF?” 

Jahan couldn’t see the coward’s eyes, but he knew an expression of insolence was on his face under the mask. Crossing the room quickly, Hood grabbed him by the arm and launched him forward, not caring if he landed on his feet or not. 

“Joint terrorist task force,” he said, kicking a body out of the way as he cleared the corners and descended the stairs with the gun raised. “Mask’s men are dead or gone, but the cops are regrouping. They’re storming the place in two minutes.” 

His knee was in agony and his lungs burned from breathing in the smoke, but Jahan made himself go faster. There was no contingency for this. None of this was _ planned. _Not even during the Siege did things get this bloody or voracious, when they were dealing with the fallout of infighting and toppled dynasties that had run Gotham for over fifty years. Jahan’s years of experience meant nothing—there wasn’t anything to compare to this level of madness. 

“Wait,” Hood said, almost clotheslining Jahan before he could run out of the emergency exit when they reached the main floor of the club. He didn’t know what they were waiting for—but the sirens were only getting louder. 

_ “Shaytan 'ahmar—” _

Jahan was ready to spill out a long string of curses when Hood gripped the back of his neck and squeezed. 

“Shut your _fucking _mouth for once in your life,” he snarled, voice deep and echoing like he was at the bottom of a long, metal tunnel. Giving one last painful twitch of his gloved fingers, Red Hood shoved Jahan back before he cleared the alley, sweeping his gun in tight motions. 

His hand shook as he held his Glock and stared down the sights. There was smoke rising to add to the sea of gray above their heads, distant yells and screams that he couldn’t make out. This wasn’t the Gotham he knew. He wiped the sweat beading down his forehead from his brow.

“What are you doing?” Jahan called out. 

Red Hood was by a manhole, ripping it open with one hand and grabbing a flashlight out of some unseen pocket of his jacket and tossing it at Jahan. Checking the safety, he tossed his semi-automatic down the hole and pulled the M32 around, bringing it up as if to fire. 

“Oh, y’know… creating a distraction.” He reached the edge of the alley and shot a round. From the shrieking sirens and retaliating gunfire, Red Hood just blew up someone’s car. 

“If you kill cops like that—”

“I’m not _ killing _any cops.” Red Hood grabbed Jahan again, dragging him along like a stubborn child. He was surprised, again, that he didn’t feel the urge to shoot him in the face for it. 

“But my—my men—” he protested, looking back to the club that had been the last stronghold of everything he had painstakingly built. All that he had wanted, all that he had worked for—it had been entirely decimated in the span of less than an hour. 

“It ain’t war without casualties.” He shoved Jahan towards the ladder that would take them underground into the water maintenance routes. It felt too much like a coward’s escape—he wanted to stay, to _fight_, but Red Hood crushed that notion quickly. “They’re either dead, on their way there, or about to enjoy an extended vacation in Blackgate. Unless you wanna join ‘em, _ get in.” _

_ “Tawaquf!” _Jahan yelled, resisting the pressure on his neck that almost made his bad leg give out from under him. Hood growled in frustration, grip tightening as the sirens came closer. He thought he could recognize the sound of a helicopter in the distance.

“You have a daughter, don’t you?” 

Jahan whipped his head up. 

_ Where is this coming from? _

No one asked about Miriam. Very few of his men even knew they were related, and they all knew to always leave her alone. Blood was blood, even if her mother had ruined her. He ignored his own sense of guilt and focused it on the man in front of him. How this _ghurayb _knew shit left him gobsmacked. “Yeah— _ yeah, _ how did you—”

“Maybe think about _ her _for once and get your fucking priorities straight.” 

Jahan didn’t have time to reply, Red Hood finally succeeded and kicked out his legs, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck before dropping him seven feet below. He landed on his bad leg, hitting the concrete hard enough that he thought he had shattered what the doctors had barely managed to reconstruct. Somehow, he managed to suppress his screams and bared his teeth in the dark. 

_ “Ayreh feek—” _he snarled, gripping his leg in pain as Red Hood turned on the flashlight and hauled him to his feet. 

“Be _ grateful _ I decided to keep you alive and _ move.” _

He closed the manhole lid above them and didn’t move to grab Jahan’s arm. Thundering footsteps shook the pavement above, and Hood kicked Jahan’s leg, urging him to go faster. Hissing, he obeyed, going as fast as the pain would allow. _ Why _he hadn’t been left to die when Hood had done nothing to stop the deaths of the others baffled him. Jahan almost wished that he had left him. There was more honour dying with them, dying with what he had built. What did he have left now?

“We lost the battle, but sometimes you gotta cut off the hand to save the arm.” 

Red Hood didn’t see the world as Jahan did. These young men didn’t see the cost of what they did, how it always turned into more. Only when he had lost everything did he realize that he’d never had anything at all. He didn’t know anything about Red Hood other than that he had come in like a tsunami that would drown Gotham, that he revelled in a type of violence that Jahan hadn’t been familiar with until the year before. Maybe he was another _djinni, _like those he had described to Miriam, and had nothing at all—no other purpose than to consume the world in fire. 

“Just wait. The revolution will come.” 

Jahan limped along in the dark, breathing laboured and heavy. “Revolution?”

Red Hood never stopped, only marching forward and never looking back. Jahan didn’t think about how the tunnels could be flooded with police any minute. He’d rather see them than whatever Hood had in mind, or whatever plan of vengeance Black Mask would unleash in retaliation. 

“Point isn’t to tear down what’s already there.” It was clammy and cold in the maintenance tunnel, and it seeped into Jahan’s bones, making his joints ache. This was the most he’d heard Hood say and it terrified him. “It’s not about being _better _or the _big-bad_. It’s fucking _practicality. _ Doing what they won’t.” Who _they _were escaped Jahan, but Hood didn’t give him time to dwell. “They don’t see it yet, but I’m _ exactly _what this city needs.” 

But Jahan knew that it wouldn’t be long until Red Hood knew what he felt and, like him, he’d have no one to blame but himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a bit late, everyone, I've been running behind in everything lately 😅. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Things are gearing up to come to a head, promise ;D. Just to give you guys even more of a tease ('cause I'm the worst), chapter 16, with the title "We're All a Little Mad Here", will definitely be one to look forward to... 
> 
> I'll repeat what I've iterated before: I try very hard to get the translations right, but since I'm not a native speaker, there's a chance some (or all) of these are wrong. Please feel free to correct me if you see any mistakes! 
> 
> _Prijatelj_ \- Croatian for "mate" or "friend"
> 
> The Arabic terms translate as follows:  
_Laqit majnun_ \- Insane bastard  
_Allahum aghfir li_ \- Allah forgive me  
_Iinahum qadimun_ \- they’re coming  
_Nadhil 'ahmar_ \- Red bastard  
_Tawaquf_ \- Stop  
_Liusaeidni Allah _\- Allah help me  
_Shaytan 'ahmar_ \- Red devil  
_Ayreh feek_ \- Fuck you
> 
> I'll see you all again in a couple of weeks! ❤


	14. Hang On, Hang On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so late, y'all. Life's been really busy and I've been struggling with burn-out and falling behind in a lot of things. Thank you for your patience, and I hope you enjoy the chapter. The next one will (hopefully) be on time! ❤

It was two in the goddamn morning by the time Gordon came back and I was allowed to leave. 

I fell asleep in his office, head resting on my arms from when I tried and failed to prop myself up on his desk. Murphy didn’t have to cuff me after all; I just sat there, searching through my jumbled thoughts and thinking about whether or not I’d be happy if Jahan had died. 

And I still don’t know what the answer is. 

When I came back to Gotham, I knew things would be messy, that the aftermath of everything I did would be something I’d need to confront, even if all I wanted to do was hide from them, one drink at a time. Their faces—everyone I let down, everyone I hurt—never leave my mind, but every time I’m confronted with one, it’s like I’m back to being an angry teenager again, unable to put a name to what was tearing open my chest. It wasn’t until I tried to put it aside that I realized just how much my anger _does _rule me, and I hate that it was Strange who pointed it out. 

I don’t drink when I get back to the apartment, don’t touch the pills, I just… sit on the bed all night, thinking with a clear head. Burying this won't solve anything. 

The Amaseena is gone—half-blown to hell and Jahan nowhere to be found. 

_He might not be dead, but twelve others are and an entire street looks like a warzone. _

And Red Hood caused it all. Well, partly. Not that I know anything, all things considered, but his tactics seem incongruous with the man from the warehouse. Who does these things—shoots someone without flinching, pistol-whips another, starts a gang war with such a high body count but seems to take no joy in it and keeps civilian casualties to a minimum? 

_Someone unhinged. _

But that's the easy answer; Red Hood isn't like _him. _

_'I don't hurt people like you.' _

I remember all too vividly the look of elation on _his _face when he lit that money on fire, created an impromptu death squad and— 

_No, no—stop. Don't go there. _

And Jahan is involved in this mess, but he wasn't the same man I confronted before to get a gun. I don't have much pity for him—he chose how he wanted his life to be a long time ago. Who's extreme enough to have that effect on him, to make him a hollowed version of a man who once lived his by pride, anger, and viciousness as long as it served a purpose, got him what he wanted? 

_Does the answer matter? _

I can't decide if Jahan matters, either. If he was dead, then I'd really be like Bruce: All we'd have is each other. 

_That's how it's always been, him having a pulse doesn't change that. Don't start looking at it with rose-coloured glasses now. _

It’s like when I blackmailed Ivan and watched him flounder—that rushing sense of vindication when someone you’ve hated for so long finally gets what they deserve. But, just like then, holding onto those feelings is exhausting, it doesn't mend the wounds, ease the pain. I know what the outcome really looks like, that idea that you’re sticking it to someone. What did it lead to with Parker and Ivan? _Him_ and Zsasz? 

_‘Be honest, Miriam. How much does your anger control you? How many times have you lost control since your ordeal with the Joker?’ _

Despite being exhausted enough to sleep for a day, I get up and grab my gym bag. I can’t sit here and think anymore; my thoughts are going in too many directions and I'm struggling to sort one from the next. Hitting something that can’t feel pain for a while—or until I can barely keep my eyes open—sounds like just as good a plan as any. 

The sun’s out for once, shining way too goddamn bright for nine in the morning, but I still put on the long-sleeved workout shirt that I know will make me overheat and pull a hoodie on top of that. I'm not sure where I'm headed, but that doesn't matter. How hard can it be to find a place, isn't that what we have Google maps for? Considering the fact that I've technically been a Gothamite for over twenty-three years, you'd think I'd know it better by now. 

_Guess that's what happens when you have someone else driving you around for most of that. _

Thinking of Alfred reminds me that I need to call him. Lost in the list of things I should've done but haven't, I shut the door behind me, the lock not sticking like it usually does. My mind's already searching for a place that doesn't hurt, and I'm not paying attention until I run into something both soft and boney. 

_“Holy shi—”_

"Ow!" a voice says, high and accusatory. 

It's not until something pokes my stomach that I think of looking down, where I see a kid with a half-serious pout and her hand on her hip. 

_Zareen. _

Her black hair's such a wiry bunch of curls that I don't know how I didn't see her earlier for how it's sticking up, and, by her expression, she's just as exasperated about running into each other like this as I am. 

“Why are you _always _hiding somewhere?” I ask, rubbing my forehead and forcing a smile after giving her a once over to make sure I didn't injure anything. Dealing with a crying kid is the last thing I want. 

“I’m not. You’re just a grandma.” She's pressing her lips tightly together, a lopsided grin poorly hidden behind a look of annoyance. 

_Grandma? Seriously? _

My smile disappears quickly and I roll my eyes, shooing her out of the way as I lock the door.

“No school again?” Answering the jab seems like a recipe for my bad mood to spill over, and starting the day being an asshole is distinctly unappealing. 

Zareen scoffs, rolling her eyes at me in a more exaggerated arc until she has to blink several times afterward. I keep back a laugh, but the attitude doesn't go away. 

“It’s _Saturday. _Aren’t adults _supposed _to know this stuff?”

I feel a muscle twitch by my eye and several snarky replies come up, but I swallow them. Having to curb my automatic retorts _does _make me feel like an old woman. “Apparently not,” I say instead, picking up my bag and edging around her to head for the stairs. 

_It's too damn early for this. _

“Where are you going?” she calls out. 

Taking a deep breath, I shove my frustrations aside, schooling my features. At this point, I don't know if she's purposely trying to annoy me or is bored and severely lacking on the adult supervision side of things. 

“Gym.” I want that to be the end of it, but then she sighs, her hands clenched together and looking at me like a sad puppy as she leans on the other end of the railing. “I need to… blow off some steam. There’s a boxing gym not very far from here.”

_Well… I _think _there is. _

The frustration ebbs when she doesn't say anything, and I make myself look—_really_ look at her. She's staring at me expectantly, her feet shuffling as she bites on the edge of her sleeve. Beyond that, I can see small bruises on her shoulders from where her oversized sweatshirt slipped.

_She’s not trying to annoy you, she can’t be at home and has nowhere else to go. _

“Boxing?” she asks before I can speak past the guilt forming a lump in my throat, perking up and wrapping her arms around the spokes of the flight above so she can hang from them. “Dad likes watching that on TV.” 

Dropping my bag off my shoulder, I come around and lean where she was a moment ago, watching her use the stairs like an impromptu jungle gym. I’m not sure if I want to ask her why she’s out here, what I’ll actually do when I hear the answer. 

_You say you want to think about people beyond yourself, but it means nothing if you don’t actually start, doesn’t it? _

“What are you doing out here again?” I ask, making insistent eye contact. Skipping school, hardly in her own apartment—something's wrong. Parents who care don’t let their child just loiter in hallways. Not in Gotham. Zareen shrugs in answer, not looking at me. “Why don’t you spend time in your apartment?”

It's not my place to push, I know it isn't, but I can't help but do it anyway. She opens her mouth to answer, the attitude coming back in a half-formed quip, but she drops from the railing when a loud _thump_ from behind the shared wall between her place and mine shakes it. The snippy, precocious attitude I’m familiar with disappears, taking whatever she was going to say along with it. 

_You should know better than anyone what being afraid looks like, Miri. _

“Did your dad ever teach you how?” I ask, pushing away from the railing and standing between her and her apartment door. Zareen’s gaze snaps back to me like she's coming out of a dream. 

“How to what?”

“Box.” The smile comes more easily, doesn't feel forced. I don't know what I'm doing, really—but I remember the offer I made her: She could ask me for anything, stop by and I'd be a person she could rely on. It's a big thing to offer a kid, and going back on that isn't something I'll let myself do. 

“Oh… no,” she says after a moment of thought, looking up at me from under her eyelashes. There's hope there, and I won't be the one to let her down. 

“Do you want to learn?”

Zareen stares at me with quiet excitement, that brimming energy returning. She seems younger now than she did before—earnest in a way I remember feeling once. But I don't remember when I felt that less and less, when it became something that disappeared entirely. 

I don't want that to happen to her. 

“C’mon then.” I pick up my bag again, but not to leave. Opening my door, I throw the duffel inside and wait. I'm not sure if my smile's encouraging or disconcerting, but her expression only gets more eager until she looks at her apartment. 

“You sure?” Skepticism creeps in, turning down the corners of her mouth and her sleeve finds its way between her teeth again, widening an existing hole in the fabric. 

Jahan's face comes to mind, all his big promises about the adventures he'd take me on when he'd come back to visit and his assurances that I was his _habibti, _that I meant something to him. It's unfair to retroactively chastise myself about something I couldn't have known as a six-year-old, but the desire to attribute his failings as mine is one that's never gone away. 

And I don't want Zareen to feel like that, either—like she's the reason people will always, _always _let her down, that there are people who don't pick up and leave just when you start letting them in. 

“Yeah. We’ll order pizza after, too, if you want.” 

I don't know why I'm smiling so much, why I'm suddenly alright with spending my morning with a lonely kid—or why I'm going to teach her how to fight. _Someone _left those bruises, and it's better that she knows how to protect herself early, even a little bit. There's the ever-present dilemma of what to do about Arkham and Strange, work to do on the Black Mask case, I've only called David to update him and sent a message to Naomi—and maybe I'm just looking for an excuse to avoid it all again but, right now, staying with Zareen seems more important. 

"OK," she says, flashing her missing canine and her golden eyes getting brighter as she steps inside, head swivelling around as she stares at the takeout containers and piles of clothes littering the floor around the bed. 

My certainty dissipates when she comes into my apartment, my unfamiliar burst of certainty wavering. I wonder if Zareen can tell that I don't spend any time around kids. God knows I’m no teacher, and probably a worse babysitter.

_You’re the one who offered to do this, you idiot. _

"First thing's first,” I say, clapping my hands together after shutting the door behind us. My anxiety is spiking, but I hide the nervous energy by digging some of my equipment out of my bag. “Show me your fighting stance." 

I watch her jump into position, her legs so far apart it looks like she’s about to drop and do the splits and her hands up and under her chin. What’s supposed to be an expression of fierce determination resembles something closer to a small cat challenging a panther to a fight and expecting that they’re gonna win. 

"No, no—you'll hurt yourself like that." I want to laugh, but I manage to keep a straight face. Gently touching her arms and nudging her legs, I make her stance sturdier and show her how to keep her guard up. "Protecting your head is the most important thing, so keep your stance strong. When you punch you extend your arm like this—don't hyperextend it and don't hit as hard as you can. You want to keep your energy, you'll need it later." 

Zareen mimics my movements, watching me closely before trying the moves herself. I show her how to wrap her hands, keep the fabric taut and her wrist supported. My hands become the targets she aims for, showing her over and over how to keep proper form, how to have power in her strikes. We sit together when I teach her how to cycle her breathing, to keep it steady and consistent. I watch as her eyes light up when I tell her weak points on a person’s body, where to hit and how to get away when you’re as small as she is. She laps up every word I say, dedicating it to memory. Her enthusiasm and excitement make the time pass by, and there’s something about it that brings up a half-memory, something that keeps slipping away every time I direct my attention toward it. 

It’s not until I’m panting lightly that I realize how Zareen managed to give me a workout and took my mind off what happened last night better than I would’ve been able to do on my own. How she looks up at me, her face beaming, makes me feel like I finally did something right, that I’m doing better by the people around me. 

_“Wham!” _she half-shouts, punching at an invisible target as she practices her footwork. “Now no one’ll bug me. If they do, I’ll just do that throat-punch thingy you showed me.” 

Memories of all the times I did just that—hit kids that bullied and called me names in school, how my primary source of dealing with pent-up anger and frustration was using my fists, how that’s still something that I struggle with—is enough to make me lean against the counter for support. 

_You sure are brilliant, aren’t you? _

But no one ever sat me down and told me about what strength was, how it went beyond what Jahan taught me and what I saw in Bruce and Mom. How long did it take to even conceptualize that strength doesn’t come from violence, that it doesn’t have to be wrapped up in making someone else feel as badly as I did?

_Maybe you still haven’t learned that. _

My hand covers Zareen’s, lowering her fist before dropping down in front of her. Mom told me to endure, but that’s not the same thing as taking pain lying down, accepting it in silence and anger.

Why didn’t anyone tell me that, either? 

“The point of learning how to fight isn’t to hurt others, Zareen.” I hesitate, but I put my hand on her shoulder, not unlike what Naomi did two days ago, and I can only hope I’m doing for Zareen what Naomi couldn’t for me. “It’s about learning how to keep yourself safe, to be confident that you won’t be helpless.” Continuing makes my voice hoarse, but I keep my gaze steady. “You need more practice, but don’t _ever _let anyone convince you that you don’t have any power. You do, you just need to learn how to use it.” 

It’s like a punch to the stomach when I realize how much that applies to myself. What is it about giving advice to others that can make you feel like a sage and yet you throw it out the window at the next given opportunity when it comes time to using it yourself? Why aren’t those the words I whisper to myself, repeat like a prayer rather than the hate I refuse to let go? 

“How do you know when you have it?” she asks, her smile fading. I make sure to maintain mine. 

“Not until you really need it, usually.” When I laugh, Zareen joins in until we’re descending into a fit of giggles that doesn’t match what’s weighing on me, but it makes me feel lighter. Standing up and brushing stray dust off my leggings, I give her a sideways grin. “You feeling hungry yet? I think I might eat an entire pizza myself.” 

The look on Zareen’s face is enough to make me feel like maybe—just maybe—I don’t ruin people after all. 

* * *

_Jesus fucking Christ. _

I made one too many mistakes when I _did _eat an entire pizza myself, and now I feel like I’m going to burst at any moment, my stomach churning in protest. The extra cheese probably wasn’t the best idea, either. 

“I’m not eating until tomorrow,” Zareen grumbles, sprawled out on the couch with a hand on her stomach and looking like she’s about to fall into a food coma. 

“Yeah, I’m with you there.” 

Laughing hurts, but it’s like I can’t help myself. She told me all about school and her friends while we waited for the delivery person to come, sniggered together about boys being gross as we dug in. I didn’t offer up much about myself and she didn’t ask apart from the occasional question about whether or not I’d done anything similar, and I was glad that I didn’t have to come up with a lie. Leaning my head back against the couch cushion, I feel like I could sleep for hours and feel just fine afterward. 

"What happened to your neck?" Zareen asks, snapping me to attention when I feel her small finger poke my exposed skin. 

"Huh?" I ask, sitting up and swatting my hand at the skin, my sluggish brain struggling to remember. 

Zareen points at me, her face screwed up in confusion. "Your neck. It looks like… someone bit you." 

Now I press on it like I’ve just been burned. There’s a barrage of images that comes with feeling the scars. They’re lighter than the others, but you can still see the impressions of teeth, how deep they went in. 

_‘I own you.’ _

My stomach turns until I think I’m going to throw up everything I ate, but I take a deep breath and remember the techniques I just taught her a few hours ago. 

_‘You cannot even say his name. Is that not sign enough that he has too much power over you?’_

Strange might be a shady piece of shit, but he _is _right. 

"Would you believe that a vampire did it?" I ask. My grin’s superficial and sweat’s soaking my back, but I won’t let myself have a breakdown that comes with others seeing my scars, grappling with everything they bring. I won’t let _him _ruin today. 

"No—I'm not _stupid," _she huffs, rolling over just enough so that I can see her narrowed eyes.

Putting a hand against my chest, I gasp like an offended Victorian lady. "Hey, vampires are _totally _real.” Ignoring how my stomach protests, I turn around and raise my eyebrows. “Careful, you never know when Dracula might be listening." 

My attempts at sounding menacing turn out to be for nothing when she looks at me in confusion. "Who's Dracula?" 

_Oh my Christ—kids today. _

I think of Parker. How we consumed that book, talked about our favourite characters and the ones that were next to useless, comparing what we knew about vampires and then devolving into long debates before settling on a long list of B-movies to mock together. But… thinking of him doesn't hurt the same as before, the usual sting blunted. Parker would be happy that I'm talking with Zareen, that I'm trying—thinking of someone other than myself, even if _his _shadow never stops clouding my sun. 

"There was… was a man who—" 

I cut myself off when my voice breaks. This is the first time I’ve felt remotely alright with talking about him. Zareen hasn’t made the connection between me and him and, even if she’s heard the vile lies spouted by people like Jack Ryder, she doesn’t associate those things with me. 

"He isn't a good person, and he... he hurt me." There’s no need to traumatize a nine-year-old, and I leave it at that. But Zareen sits up, her eyebrows furrowed as she looks from the scar to me. "He's gone, he can’t hurt anyone now. It's alright," I say, waving away her worry. I’m once again struck by my own words, how they contradict my raging paranoia. 

_You want her to believe them, so why won’t you let yourself do the same? _

"Did you beat him up?" she asks, staring at my fists now. 

The feeling of glass puncturing his side, what it was like when my fist connected with his jaw, that—that _overwhelming _urge to shoot him and not being able to pull the trigger, of wanting to watch him bleed out while I laughed—it’s all I think about for a moment. 

"No. No, I didn't," I say quietly. 

I also think about how it didn’t do _anything_. No matter how much I wanted to kill him, I couldn’t do it. 

"But you're so strong," she says, squeezing my biceps as if to affirm it to herself. 

I want to laugh and tell her how wrong she is, indulge in the negative energy that’s always looking to engulf me, fixate on how _pathetic _I feel all the time, how my strength always amounts to nothing. 

"Not really. Everyone feels weak sometimes." 

_Still do. _

“How… how did you stop feeling like that?” 

What would’ve happened if I  _ had  _ shot him, if I hadn’t listened to Bruce? I don't know if I would feel any better. Would killing Zsasz myself have stopped the feeling of his hands on my body, choking me in my sleep? Would I feel stronger for it?

“You don’t, but it’s… it’s not always about stopping the feeling. Being scared is OK, it’s what you do beyond that. Finding those moments to be brave.” It’s almost like it’s Rachel speaking instead of me, like I'm parroting advice I never knew how to take to heart. 

Zareen grows quiet, thinking to herself and nibbling on her pizza-sauce splattered sleeve. We go back to laying in place, close to falling asleep, when we both jump at the sound of a knock at the door. 

“Who the fu—_heck_ would that be?” 

I barely managed to catch myself in time, but Zareen’s not paying attention to my slip-up. She’s staring at the door with terror in her eyes. 

“It’s my dad. I’ve been gone too long—”

“Zareen, it’s OK—it’s OK,” I say, pressing down on her shoulders when she shoots up from the couch. “Just stay here, alright? I’ll see who it is and you don’t move for a minute, yeah?” 

She nods, but my head’s racing. It’s either her dad or an unexpected visit from Jason—but he would’ve called ahead first, and Naomi would’ve just walked in. When I look through the spyhole, I freeze for a moment before turning the deadbolt and swinging the door open. 

“Er... hi,” Bruce says. He’s wearing an old sweater and beat-up jacket with a baseball cap pulled down to cover most of his face, and for some godforsaken reason, I want to cackle at the sight of him in _disguise_. “I was going to call, but I thought I’d surprise you with some Thai—” He stops when he sees the small stack of pizza boxes and Zareen peeking conspicuously over the edge of the couch.

_Fucking hell. _

He always did have the worst sense of timing. 

“You… wanna come in?” I ask after a moment. Staring awkwardly at one another with him holding a bag of food that he now doesn’t know what to do with is enough to make me sweat all over again. 

Bruce looks less sure of himself than he does as Batman, almost resembling the young man I knew before he left. But I don’t have time to reflect. Upon seeing that it isn’t her dad, Zareen pops off the couch, crossing her arms and staring at Bruce with a suspicious frown and a hip jutted out. 

"Is he your boyfriend?” she asks, speaking to me. “I thought you were dating that other buff dude—" 

Just when I’m about to throw a slice of pizza at her face or question as to exactly _how _she’d have any idea of who I am or am not dating—I haven’t decided yet—Bruce sets the bags on the counter and extends a hand. 

"Hi, very nice to meet you."

She looks from his hand to his face like he has the plague, and my initial urge to throw her back onto the couch turns into barely suppressed giggles. Bruce doesn’t seem as offended as I thought he might be or even as awkward as he was a moment before. He’s switched his charm on, dropping down so he doesn’t tower over her. 

"I'm Miriam’s cousin, she used to live with me for a little while.” He looks up at me with a half-smile. “I’m not around as much as I should be, but you look responsible." 

His expression turns serious, but never mocking or condescending. It’s only now that I think about how I’ve never seen him interact with children before, and I don’t know why it’s so surprising to see him talking with one now, especially as good-naturedly as he is. My own lingering sense of annoyance fades. 

“I think she could use some help. Miriam tends to lose her socks all over the place. Never a day went by when I didn’t find them in the _strangest _spots,” Bruce begins, stopping when she starts to titter. 

“No, she didn’t,” Zareen says, looking from me to Bruce with a goofy grin, giving new objections at every quirky, made-up detail Bruce gives until they devolve into a conversation of _nuh-uh _and _uh-huh_’s. 

“You weren’t supposed to tell anyone about that,” I interrupt, looking at him between the fingers covering my eyes in faux-embarrassment. Zareen’s face lights up with a fresh bout of giggling and arguing, asking more ridiculous questions about where exactly I supposedly lost my socks and Bruce coming up with more elaborate answers until a stitch pinches my side, 

“Kept happening until she totally ran out—she had no idea where they’d all run off to,” Bruce says, the mischief on his face something that I haven’t seen since I was close to Zareen’s age. “It used to be _my _job to keep an eye out for the Sock Bandit, but something tells me you’d be better at it than I am.” 

She rolls her eyes for the umpteenth time, scoffing. “Sock bandits aren’t _real.”_

“Have you ever seen one?” Bruce rejoins, turning his head to the side and raising a brow. 

Zareen’s mouth opens and closes quickly. “Well… no.” 

“Then how do you know if they aren’t real?” 

She opens her mouth to argue but closes it again, shooting him a look that tells him that he won’t have the victory for long before turning to me. “I'm gonna go home. I need to get back before… before Dad’s back from the store.” 

I’d be an idiot to not see that she’s lying, but interjecting or stepping in is something I’m not equipped to do. She knows where I am, and I can hope that’s enough for now. It doesn’t stop my throat from getting tight or my hackles from rising. “See you, Zar. Pop over whenever you want, OK?”

Nodding, she waves goodbye and shuts the door behind her. It hasn’t even been three seconds before Bruce gives me a look. "'Buff dude'? Is that who was here when—"

My face goes hot again, mortified at what he might've seen when he was perched outside my window like a goddamn stalker, and I barely suppress the urge to punch his arm or give any other confirmation to what he might be suspecting. 

“Don’t ask.” My voice sounds harsher now that Zareen’s gone, and I wince. He gives me yet another look, something close to what I’d imagine a disapproving father doing, and I sigh. “She’s my neighbour—spends a lot of time by herself hiding out on the stairwell. I invited her over and showed her a few things and we had pizza. It’s no big deal.” 

“You don’t think her parents will mind that their daughter’s spending time with a stranger?” Bruce looks around my apartment, probably for empty bottles and cans of alcohol, the playfulness gone and the coolness of his _other _persona returning along with my bitterness. 

“I don’t think they give a fuck at all about what she does and doesn’t do.” I’m snapping again, getting closer to biting his head off. Closing my eyes, I pinch the bridge of my nose and take a deep breath. “I’m just… I don’t know, looking out for her, I guess.” When I look up, Bruce nods, casting his eyes downward. 

_He didn't show up just to surprise me with Thai. _

“You’re here about last night.” 

He just looks at me and doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t deny it either. 

“Did you… did you hear anything?”

My voice breaks again and I’m surprised at the tears stinging my eyes. Turning, I wipe them away before they can fall, picking up the remnants of my lunch with Zareen and throwing it into one box while determinedly not making eye contact. 

“They haven’t found his body—they’re assuming he’s alive.” I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding, my grip loosening around the cups in my hand. The relief I feel is something I don’t have the ability to rationalize. “Red Hood escaped through the sewers, it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that he took Jahan with him. Black Mask targetted all of Hood’s lieutenants, two out of four are dead. Things are getting ugly.”

I can tell the difference in his voice now when he changes back and forth rather than it just being his expressions before. Something in my chest tightens, comparing how swift he was to let go of the man I thought I knew who was just in front of me a moment ago, and I wonder if it was ever real at all. 

“Why aren’t you out there, then?” 

Bruce becomes visibly more awkward than before, pacing around my apartment much like Zareen did earlier, and I’m _very _glad that stopping at a twenty-four-hour liquor store wasn’t on my agenda last night. 

“Good to see that you’re still a slob.” It’s not the answer I expected, and neither is my laugh in reply. 

“You would be, too, if Alfred didn’t clean up everything.” 

He smirks and rolls his shoulders up in a half-shrug but doesn’t deny it. We both know we’re properly useless without having Alfred around. 

_All the more reason you should see him more often now. _

Clearing my throat, I run my hands through my hair. “You didn’t answer my question.” 

_Whatever happened to not asking questions you don’t want to know the answers to? _

“Being here is more important,” he says after a long moment. 

I want to believe that. I want that to be true, more than anything, but I don’t know if I’ll ever believe it, no matter how sincere Bruce is. Maybe there are some disappointments that just... that I can never leave behind.

But I almost lose it completely when I see that he’s holding Mom’s ring. He found the box in the mess around my bags, the one I haven't had the courage to open and hold in my hands other than for a few seconds at a time. 

_Something else _he _took away. _

I can’t go there—can’t let myself fall down that pit. I’d never say it aloud, but I know that there’s only so many times I can keep dragging myself out of it before there’s no coming back. And I won’t let that happen. I _can’t _let that happen. 

“Have you heard much about Roman Sionis?” 

Now it’s _my _turn to change the subject, turning the conversation back to something that doesn’t involve talking about our feelings. Bruce seems relieved, carefully setting the small box on top a haphazardly folded sweater. 

“Janus Cosmetics is failing, Wayne Enterprises was looking at buying them out when Roman took over. He’s been driving it into the ground since his parents died,” he says after a moment of thought. 

“What about criminal activity?” 

“You mean beyond the white-collar—” A hard glint of calculation makes his eyes sharper, his posture changing as the _great _detective comes out in him. “Your team’s investigating him?” 

“Will be, yeah. He’s the most solid lead I can think of. Gordon agrees.” 

Bruce nods, joining me at the small table and leaning over one of the chairs, his hands white where he’s gripping the back of it. “I’ll look into it. Hood’s been upping his attacks, it’s been… _distracting_.”

_You mean that dealing with local terrorism is a big ask for a one-man team? Who would’ve thought. _

“You should leave that to the JTTFs.” 

He scoffs, looking at me like I should know better, that I should have more faith in him. “They can’t handle men like him, Miri.”

I don’t have a reason as to why the anger bubbles up, why it wants to form itself into a living being that controls my limbs, why I have a brief flash of throwing something else at him, why I’m so _convinced _that it’ll feel good when I know—_I know _it won’t.

“They could if they had access to the same tech you do.” It’s like I can’t help but pick at the wounds that are just starting to scab over, tearing them open until it grows a little wider each time. 

_How long before it doesn’t heal at all anymore? _

“That only ends one way, and I’m not giving them the tools to misuse—”

I know how it ends even if I don’t want to. 

_Is it worth it, Miri? Do you always want to be angry, do you want to destroy everything, just like _he _said you do? _

“Stop,” I interrupt, desperate to take my words back, to have not started this at all. I feel so much younger, so unlike the person I know I am, like I’m back in the place when I was longing to have my family close, before I learned to expect them to leave me behind. “I don’t… I don’t want to fight with you.” 

I also don’t like feeling this way in front of Bruce, giving him another reason to treat me like a child and keep me in the dark. When I left, I thought I was taking a page from his book—leaving everything that hurt and coming back as someone else, someone stronger for it. 

But maybe that didn’t happen for either of us. 

“I went to Arkham,” I say eventually, my shoulders slumping as I cradle my head in my hands. Glancing up for a moment is all I need to see that he knew already. “Were you there?” 

The thought of him _actually _hiding out in a tree somewhere while I walked in there, terrified and high, makes me drive my nails into my scalp. Bruce sits down quietly in the chair next to mine. 

“No, not for long—I do regular patrols up that way.” 

The apartment is quiet; I don’t hear the sounds of the street outside or the loud voice of an announcer from some sports channel playing on the other side of the wall like I usually do. It’s just me and Bruce breathing, finding our footing around each other, on the edge of sliding down different paths of the same slope. 

“Dr. Strange is the shrink I’ve been assigned to.” 

More gears are turning in his head, and he frowns. “That’s odd. Why would the head of Arkham take you on as a patient?” 

_My question exactly. _

“He said that the one I was assigned to is on leave and he's taking over his cases.” Looking at him, Bruce sees the bullshit just as much as I do. “The session felt more like… like I was under a microscope. Like he had a scalpel against my stomach or something. He was… weird. Creepy.” 

_And a fucking asshole._

Bruce is looking at me with more concern, straightening as his own anger surfaces. I don’t have it in me to assuage his misplaced sense of protectiveness right now, I just need to feel like I’m not drowning. Just for a little while. 

“The first session didn’t go very well,” I say, talking quickly. He settles back in his chair, watching the movements I make, how I’m curling in on myself. I don't want to tell him about how I got upset, how I thought about hurting Strange, how I was so terrified that I was barely consolable, that I have a problem I don't know how to fix. “Do you wish that you got to confront Chill?" I ask instead, not looking at him. "That you could… I don’t know, get answers?” 

Now it’s Bruce’s turn to look surprised; he wasn’t expecting this direction, and I don’t think I was, either. He told me about what led to him leaving after Parker died and he brought me to the penthouse, tried, in the best way he knew how, to tell me why he failed. But my best friend’s been dead for over a year and I’m not a hair’s breadth away from catatonia anymore; I'm finally in a place where I want to hear him, where I can hear the truth without hating him for it.

“At the time, no.” He looks uncomfortable with the question, but I feel a misplaced sense of hope at seeing him try. “Anger… anger was what mattered then; I didn’t think words would help. It wouldn’t bring my parents back.” He takes a deep breath, taking off the baseball cap to smooth his hair back. “Now I wish I had.”

He looks like he did the first time he came—_Jesus,_ how that feels like it’s been months ago already—regret is etched into his face, uncertainty that he doesn’t know how to release. 

“Strange wants me to see _him.” _

I didn’t want to entertain the possibility, to decidedly shove it into the _Terrible Ideas _corner of my brain and continue to spit fire at the suggestion of confronting anything, but I’m realizing that I can’t. Because, the more I think about it, the more it scares me that it makes sense. 

“For another appointment?” he asks. 

For once, I can empathize with Bruce’s doubling, how he keeps his two selves separate. The intense draw I feel to Jason is something I’m having a harder time denying, and keeping myself away isn’t something I can resolve to do for more than a few hours. It’s embarrassing how thinking about him makes my face warm, but it hurts more knowing that I already set that relationship up to fail, that it won’t be long before he connects the dots, sees me for what I am. I can’t tell him about all of this even though I want to. 

_But you have Bruce. _

Do I? 

“No, no. He wants me to—he wants to set up this…” 

The tears come again and I push the heels of my hands against them like I can keep them inside, like this isn’t real after all. 

_How long are you going to cling to that, too?_

“He wants me to confront the—the Joker,” I say, my voice a quiet whisper as I push harder until I see flashes of white, concentrating on keeping the images back as my throat closes. It’s the first time I’ve said his name out loud in over a year, and even speaking it still feels like an invocation just like it did before when Bruce and Alfred took me home from the hospital the first time, when I really felt my life fall apart, and I can’t even summon feelings of pride that I proved Strange wrong. “He told me that…” 

“It doesn’t matter what he said.” Bruce’s rage radiates off of him, turning into a physical presence onto itself that I can feel without seeing it. When I finally look at him, I see something that was absent since I saw him beating Joker, that driving urge to crush someone with his bare hands. “You’re not going anywhere _near _him. It’s bad enough that you’re in the same building—” 

It’s another stab in the heart when I see that we share that, too. 

“But Strange was right. I—I’m still—” 

Whatever was left of me that wanted to keep the illusion of stability crumbles, and I hug Bruce. It feels odd, his stiff body against mine, how he hesitates before returning it, how my body screams at me to push him away, to hide. 

_Not this time. _

“I’m _terrified. All the time. _It—it controls _everything _and I’m—”

I’m sick of it. I want to kill _him_. Spit in his face. Make him feel _every bit_ of agony that he subjected me to. Be the last face he sees while his blood coats my hands. 

But, most of all, I don’t want to think about him. I want him gone from my memory and the marks he left erased from my body. I want to have never met him at all. 

“I don’t want to feel like this anymore,” I say into his shoulder. It's the only thing I can force out, and I hope he understands the rest without me having to say it. 

His muscles twitch, but he relaxes, his hand rubbing my back like he used to when I was young. “Do you think it'll help?” he asks, waiting until I’m the one to pull away. Wiping at my face, I stare at the wall like I didn’t just lose it, that I’m fine. It doesn’t matter if Bruce believes it or not. 

“I… I don’t know. But it… something has to be different, doesn’t it?”

_‘Does it get any better?’_

_‘No. No, it doesn’t.’_

Emotion won’t convince Bruce not to lock me in a room in the Manor, won’t keep him from trying to solve my problems for me. I don’t want him to know how much time I’ve spent thinking about this, how short a period of time it’s taken for me to talk myself into it—or maybe I didn’t want to make it real for myself that I had. 

“If those chips are being used in Arkham and implanted in patients, then I need to get in somehow. Talk to someone on the inside.” 

Bruce shakes his head. He’s still angry—whether at Strange for suggesting it or himself that this is a necessity in the first place is unclear. “The Joker has no interest in helping you, Miriam. He doesn’t operate that way—_animals _don’t think like that.” 

I almost tell him about the conversation I had with Jahan about the nature of _djinn_, but I don’t think I even understand the full meanings of that myself. Describing him as a demon or an animal doesn’t do enough to encapsulate what that actually means, _what_ he is. Or even if he—or anyone—is something that can be defined that way.

“Even if I can’t get anything from him, I need access to their facilities—plant a drive that gives me an in to their closed system so that their nodes feed me whatever it is that they’re passing off as medical care.” 

He’s still articulating his dissent with body language, his mouth a firm line as he turns into a version of a stubborn father I never experienced for myself. “This isn’t happening. I’ll find a way in and—”

“Didn’t you _just _say that your hands are full with Black Mask and Red Hood’s bullshit, emphasize that people are _dying _because of those chips?” I interrupt. 

He narrows his eyes, and the look of stubbornness is maddening. “I’ll go with you.”

_Like that’ll do anything, you dolt. _

“No, you won’t. You’re not my support dog or something, holding my hand isn’t required.” 

Bruce barks out a laugh in frustration, standing and walking in a circle with his hands in his hair like he might start ripping it out. He’d better be thinking about his promise, when he extended his finger in a pact that I believed he wouldn't break. 

“Do you trust me or not?” I demand, walking in front of him until he meets my eyes. “Did you mean it when you said you’d trust me to tell you if I needed help, that you _wouldn’t _treat me like a kid?” 

His body stills, eyes looking for something that will give him a reason to go back on his word, put me in a corner because he thinks it’s what will keep me safe. Bruce was always my protector, but he never taught me how to be one for myself. I’m prepared to argue with him, to not back down, when he sighs in resignation and digs into a coat pocket.

“Take this, then,” he says, sounding weary. “It’s like a panic button. If something goes wrong, if you’re in danger or change your mind, you press it.” He may be resigned, but he’s still pleading, not wanting me to totally step away where he can’t reach me. 

I wouldn’t let myself see it before, but there’s more in my life beyond what’s hurting me. There’s something waiting that I turned my back on, a future I didn’t think I had. I didn’t want to see Bruce because I didn’t want to face that constant reminder that he would never be able to move past what happened any more than I could, that we’d be permanent reminders of something we’d never be able to change. 

_But you can keep trying. _

Leaning into him, I nod and feel his relief. “I just don’t… I don’t want to hide anymore. Is that a bad thing?” 

_Will it be something that hurts me later? Am I making another mistake? _

But Bruce can’t answer those questions for me, no matter how much he might want to. When he smiles, it’s so sad that I can’t look at him for long, letting it be enough that he’s next to me, that his breathing is steady and deep, that he isn’t leaving and that I don’t want him to. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title comes from Amos Lee's "Hang On, Hang On" as I thought the lyrics had quite a few parallels with what Miri's struggling with and the direction her and Bruce's relationship is going. This will also be one of the last "low-key" chapters of this installment as I kick things up a notch. Thank you for your support and love, I couldn't do this without you guys!


	15. The Lion's Den

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger Warning:** This fic has its rating and tags for a reason, but there are some other things that happen in this chapter that aren't tagged. Please be aware that homophobia and racism are two heavy and triggering elements in the first half of this chapter, and look after yourself when reading if this is something that particularly resonates with you. Otherwise, I hope the chapter doesn't disappoint.

If someone had asked Brenda Sheppard if she enjoyed her job, she'd have said something along the lines of _depends on the day_ or _mind your own goddamn business, _but on this particular day, she'd tell them it was absolute _shit. _

Brenda was looking forward to her hot mess of a bed when she got back to her apartment in Uptown. The lights of the club were strobing at a pace that made her fairly certain she was going to have a seizure, the room getting hotter as the night dragged on. Half-naked women danced on the tables around her, glitter and sequins refracting the light, blurs of movement that got hazier the more she drank, their heels so high she marvelled as to how they hadn’t snapped their skinny-ass ankles yet. 

_“We’re celebrating,” _Roman had told her earlier, making her change into some skimpy romper after citing a made-up dress code before herding her and his entourage into his town car and cracking open the champagne, one giddy girl on each knee as he jeered all the way to his favourite club, The Rabbit Hole. Roman wanted to own his own club, but he wasn’t interested in starting from the ground up. He preferred taking the final product—the fruits of another's labour. And he had Vasily Kosov whipped like a bitch just for that purpose.

_Including you, huh? _she thought, downing what was left of her mojito. 

Roman had a way with things like that—making sure you couldn’t say no, even if you wanted to. The men and women he’d brought along with him were dancing, throwing their hands up and swaying to the beat, too drunk to notice they weren’t moving with the tempo, their backs coated in sweat as they worked out whatever cocktail of drugs they’d snorted or ingested prior. He was too high on his own ego—and whatever else he had in his system—to see that they had nothing to be excited about. Brenda was close to falling asleep despite the blaring noise screaming out of the speakers, spouting rap in a white man’s club as the bass rattled her teeth, the golden watch on her wrist showing it was well-past two in the morning. 

_“Whoo!”_

And yet Roman managed to be loud enough to be heard above the cacophony, his smile big as he grinded into some groupie’s ass as she danced for him, pressing her back into his chest, his hands close to her breasts. She didn’t look any older than seventeen, no matter how much makeup she wore. Looking away, Brenda clicked her tongue and motioned to the bartender waiting on their VIP area for another drink. 

She remembered what it was like working for Roman back when he first considered moving back to Gotham, his parents be damned—the fucking brat—when she hadn't needed to stay late and had her evenings to herself, when she had thought Roman charming. Making millions to help him play Godfather had been fun. At first. 

_Those were the days. _

“C’mon and dance_, _Brenda! _Dance,” _Roman shouted over the music, pointing her way as he mimed slapping the girl’s ass before doing a spin, his white dinner jacket twirling with him. 

It took everything Brenda had not to roll her eyes. She didn’t _want _to dance; the bastard always got too excited over shit he shouldn’t. Shooting up a street and killing over a dozen people wasn’t something that warranted elation—it only left them open to get bit in the ass later. Two dead cops being part of that body count would only make the crackdown all the harder. 

_The smug asshole never listens to a goddamn word I say. _

Roman was quick to ignore her suggestion for subtlety, of waiting out the enemy, for Hood to make enough mistakes and getting the cops to handle their problem; that’s why they had the strategy of using Gordon's anti-corruption policy to their advantage, pointing him in all the directions that didn't lead to them. Apparently Roman’s need to measure his dick against every perceived phallic symbol he thought he saw was a compulsion he was unwilling to do away with. 

“Did you snort too much cocaine this morning?” she shouted back without thinking, staring at her fingernails with one high heeled foot propped up on the glass table, small ziplocks of ecstasy and pills and lines of _actual _coke littering the surface. Brenda had previously scheduled a date that night with a cute girl she’d met at a cocktail bar down in the Financial District earlier in the week. Having to cancel just to watch Roman rave around because he was hopped up on an extra dose of _crazy_ wasn’t her idea of a good time, and she was feeling bitter. 

_Just when you thought your dry spell was over, _she thought. Meeting women in her line of work was a rarity, even when she spent so much time in clubs, and men like Roman exemplified all too well why most would be wise to stay in the closet. _Too bad you’re not one of ‘em. _

Whatever song Roman was romping to stopped abruptly when he raised his hand in the air, making a gesture that was correctly interpreted as an instant need for the volume to drop, and the new DJ had picked up that cue better than the last one had. 

“Oh my _fuck—” _

The hair on the back of Brenda’s neck stood up on end, and she realized too late that tonight was not a good night for quips, for raining on Roman’s parade. Alcohol made her tongue too loose, and the words she’d meant to keep in her head had slipped out. 

_Don’t panic. _

If there was one thing she always remembered, it was that Roman pounced on fear. She didn’t swallow, didn’t look away as the people closest to them looked on with curiosity between Roman and Brenda. The sudden absence of the wall of sound after having her body numbed by it was jarring. The regulars had seen Roman and Brenda together, but they thought Roman was just another crazy piece of shit with a big wallet and Brenda was one of his many whores. Brenda knew better than to correct them. 

“Can’t I just have one thing—_ONE THING—_without you raggin’ on me?” he growled, a roar building in his chest as he pointed a black-gloved finger at her. 

Brenda forced herself to be still, to not even blink. She’d weathered his bad moods before, the constant swing between extremes, and being calm was key. Roman liked public spectacle, and she wouldn’t give him one. 

“That’s not what you pay me for.” Dragging the corners of her mouth into a smile, she kept it casual—it was best to do that with Roman: not to let him see the effect he was having, even as he stalked towards her. “You knew I was a bitch when you hired me.” 

Self-deprecation was a safe bet around Roman—pour the acid on yourself so that when he did it, the burn was less substantial. 

"Cunt's more like it," he sneered, his handsome face screwed up in a grimace that almost showed how ugly he was on the inside. Standing less than a foot away, so close that she could smell the stale sweat and overpowering cologne clinging to his navy silk shirt and see how unnaturally dilated his eyes were, his gaze lingered on her bare legs. Slowly dragging up, halting for too long on her chest as he smoothed his hair back, Brenda made her breathing remain even when they finally landed on her face. Leaning down, she didn’t blink when the small drops of his spit hit her cheeks. “You’re lucky I don’t _fuck you_ straight.” 

It wasn’t the first time he’d made remarks like that. Most revolved around her _exotic _looks, the small gap between her two front teeth, being a _tease_. He saved the not-so-subtle comments of assault and homophobia for when he was _really _pissed at her. 

It was both a blessing and a curse that she knew he didn't really mean it—she was too old for his particular tastes despite being thirty-two, as she had come to learn—but that didn't mean he wouldn't have one of his men do it for him. 

_"You’re too beautiful to be a dyke," _he’d said to her early on after he’d paid her retainer’s fee and had seen an old photo with her and an ex-girlfriend. Her firm had paid her a lot of money to be Roman’s lawyer, and he had given her even more for going above the call of duty and signing up to handle _all _of his business, and every day had become a negotiation for how much of her dignity she was going to sell. 

Her real saving grace was that Roman knew as well as she that she was too integral for his operations to fuck-up on a whim. Replacing her would take time, so he just made her watch when he took his frustrations out on someone else, exercising his ability to be shitty every few days so he felt _tough. _And Brenda let him feel that way, grateful for how dark her skin covered the intense flush of blood in her cheeks as the back of her eyes burned. She swallowed her retorts when Roman kicked her leg down from the table and dragged her up from her seat by the bicep. 

“C’mon now, _Brenda,” _he began, slinging an arm over her shoulder as he led her forward, talking in her ear as they walked across the dance floor, the clubbers parting like the Red Sea, “our little fuckin’ _rat _is supposed to have some news for us. He was quick to call after yesterday’s fireworks.” 

She wanted to clarify that it wasn’t _fireworks _when it involved grenade launchers, but Roman wasn’t in the mood for their usual bickering; she should’ve seen it coming, really. She had lasted the longest out of his entourage and crew for a reason, and the money paid enough for her not to care about his sick preoccupations, his obsession with masks and causing pain, and she didn’t come this far for her smart mouth to start screwing her now. 

“Did he say he had anything?” she asked, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hand. 

Walking up the stairs, the security team nodded their way, hands dropping from the guns at their sides. Vasily had given them a good deal of his men when he joined up with Roman, and he certainly liked putting them to waste. 

_“Moye tvoye,”_ the Russian shit had said when he had come to kiss the ring. After losing most of his Russian Mafia brethren in the leaderless coup, Vasily was eager to save his own hide and what was left of the Chechen and Dimitrov's crew. The mighty were no longer after the Joker was through with them, and Roman was eager to acquire more pets to leash. 

“Yeah, said it was _urgent,” _he scoffed, his bad mood easing back as whatever he’d taken before settled him down, her slip-up fading from memory. This was their own song and dance—she’d say something stupid, he’d start inching for his knives, she’d acquiesce and he’d go back to being smug. “Dent’s already waiting. Figured thirty minutes staring at that charred mug would make him more… heh, _eager.” _

His arm slid up hers, the leather caressing her skin. She grit her teeth to stop herself from pulling away. 

_He’s doing it to fuck with you. _

That didn’t stop her brain from going back to the scene she had seen almost a week ago. All the blood on the floor, how it had caked the bottom of her shoes. 

_Not your problem if you don’t make it._

“The rest is just picking up loose ends, darlin’. Have some _faith _for once,” he said, jostling her before removing his arm. She made herself not move any closer or further away. “Won’t be long and even your nappy ass won’t have a reason to be so uptight.”

_You pencil-dick motherfucker. _

“You say it like it’s a done deal, Roman. He isn’t dead yet and there’s still—”

He silenced her with a sidelong glare, eyes narrowing. "Didn't I say it already? Have some _fucking _faith." 

She swallowed her retort as they followed the walkway leading to a black door at the end with two large men on either side. Most people thought it was a private area for when the head honchos wanted to get in a quick fuck or deal with the heavier stuff, make a couple of low-end trades. It wasn’t entirely wrong—Roman often did the former—but no one had looked to Roman as a crime boss, not in the beginning. He wasn’t particularly careful anymore, but what he lacked in caution he made up for in sheer viciousness. 

Standing aside, his men punched in the code and swung the door open as they drew near, making sure not to stare for too long at either of them. Brenda didn’t know their names, not bothering to memorize their faces anymore, but she guessed by their reaction that they had either been briefed or had cleaned up Roman’s messes before. 

Before going into the main office, Roman walked to the end of the hall, spinning the locks on one of his heavy cabinets built into the wall. His ego train was going full speed tonight, and he was always one for an audience, but it was never his own face he preferred showing when he was doing _real _business, as he liked to differentiate, and it wasn’t something he could do at Janus.

Janus Cosmetics was the site of his legitimate dealings, his family’s company that he was steering into ruin, and where he flaunted one kind of mask—the kind that wanted to shmooze the other socialites of Gotham, earn their respect and deference, and have the opulence he saw with families like the Waynes and Dumas. 

He replaced his white jacket with one that was black and embroidered with dark threads of gold in abstract patterns of tribal masks, his white tie stark against his chest. Janus, god of duality, beginnings and endings—was emblematic of Roman’s fascination for something inside himself, an area of his mind that Brenda never wanted access to. 

The Rabbit Hole was where Roman liked to have _fun_, where he felt his most powerful. It meant more to him, became a place where he could be, as he often told Brenda, his _true _self. It had taken her time to discover what he meant, what that looked like the more he thought he was succeeding. 

What Roman pulled out last from the cabinet never failed to make Brenda’s skin crawl. “After you,” he said, motioning to the office door. His voice should've been muffled, but it seemed to resonate more deeply, his gray eyes sharp shards of ice that had something malicious forming behind them. Brenda was quick to look away. 

The office wasn’t so different from the one at Janus Cosmetics—everything a contrast between white and black, uncomfortable furniture with angular designs and accents of red and gold, the lighting dark with a few well-placed lamps to _set the mood_ as Roman had once said. Sitting at his desk was David Miller, cybersecurity with Homeland and an old addition on Roman’a payroll, and Harvey Dent sitting off to the side, staring at the wall as he turned something over in his hand. 

“Gentlemen,” Black Mask greeted, throwing his arms out in welcome as he sat in his high-backed chair. 

David visibly flinched when he looked at Black Mask, his pasty skin getting paler. Brenda kept her head high as she leaned against the wall beside Black Mask, not looking back as his personal guard shut the door behind them. 

“It’s been a while since we’ve gotten an update in person, hasn’t it?” Staring at David, Black Mask steepled his hands together, his gaze steady. It wasn’t easy looking at a mask made of obsidian and leather, a skull carved to perfectly fit the contours of Roman Sionis’s face. “I hope this is good, for your sake.” 

David swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he panted like he just went up a long set of stairs. “Um, well, it’s—it’s, um—”

_“Spit it out,” _Black Mask snarled, snapping his body forward and startling David so badly that he almost popped out of his seat. 

"They—they added you to their POI list," David forced out, eyes darting between Dent and Black Mask. Dent did make for a terrifying partner in the room—his face was _actually_ half-seared off and showing more of his skull than someone ought without dying. When he was met with a look of confusion from Black Mask, he cleared his throat and continued, “They’ve started—started looking into you.” 

_Oh, for fuck’s sake— _

Black Mask burst into laughter, dark and low. David was easily twice the size of him, but he looked like a little boy sitting in that chair, hands digging into the rests and feet burying themselves in the plush carpet. 

“I’m sorry, I thought you said something _really _fucking stupid.” Black Mask leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. “You wanna try that again?” 

His Panterra T-shirt was damp with sweat, and Brenda found out a long time ago to recognize the smell of fear, and David was bathing in it. "Homeland and GCPD—they're looking at you and Janus—" 

"No, you fat fucking _moron!" _Slamming his fists on the desk, Black Mask half-rose out of his chair. Looking at the mask up close didn’t make it any prettier, and David seemed close to pissing himself. _"What. The. Fuck. Happened? Huh?!" _he demanded, barely in control of himself. "What the _hell _am I paying you for if you can't do your job right?!" 

Dent watched the scene unfold with idle interest, eyes flicking back and forth between Black Mask and David before landing on Brenda. _Overcompensating much? _his expression seemed to say as he lifted one brow and gave a minute shrug of his shoulders. Brenda bit her tongue to keep from laughing in agreement, but she couldn’t stop the twitch in the corner of her lips, how she had to turn away and hide her mouth behind her hand.

"I—I'm trying my best—" David spluttered, shrinking further into his chair. When Brenda had first met him, the man had seemed quiet and emotionless, almost permanently bored. 

_Amazing what fear changes, _she thought. 

“Brenda, come here a moment.” 

In a moment that seemed to be suspended in time, Brenda realized that Black Mask wasn’t looking at David anymore. He was staring at her. 

“What?” she asked stupidly, thinking she missed a chunk of time somewhere in the midst of David’s blubbering.

“Come here,” he said, patting his lap. 

“You—you’re not serious,” Brenda scoffed, looking to Dent for affirmation. He was just as impassive as before. “Roman—”

“I didn’t _ask _you to speak, did I?” 

She swallowed hard, looking from David’s terrified face to Dent’s carefully empty one. Roman had his covered, but she didn’t doubt that he was grinning. 

Head still held high, she kept her arms tightly wound around her stomach to keep Black Mask from seeing how badly her hands shook. All too aware of how much skin the romper showed, how it rode up her thighs, she sat where Black Mask indicated, trying to lean on the side so she could keep her legs together, but he tugged her down by the arm, making her land awkwardly, both legs splayed on either side of his and his hand clamped on the back of her neck. 

_Don’t panic, Roman wouldn’t— _

But Brenda knew that wasn’t true. She’d seen him do worse for less. 

_So much for forgetting about the slip-up. _

She should’ve known better then, too, that expecting Roman to make the _smart _decision wasn’t always his prerogative, especially if he could gratify his immediate impulses.

"Do you think that's good enough? Your _best?" _Black Mask asked eventually, waiting until Brenda’s breathing slowed and was certain she’d stay in place. She almost thought he was talking to her for how his hand dropped to her thigh, but it was David he was addressing. 

"M-Mr. Black—Black Mask, sir—" 

_"Who."_ It wasn’t a question; it was a demand, his hand gripping her leg too tight. Brenda had seen him when what was left of his limited supply of patience was gone, and she didn’t want to think about who was going to have their face marked up and fed to them. 

_It’s probably gonna be you. _

Focusing on the painting hanging on the wall behind David’s head, she kept staring to stave off the panic attack burgeoning in her chest. 

"S-Sorry?" David asked, his hairline glistening with sweat as his gaze went from where he was holding Brenda’s leg to Black Mask’s face, his body vibrating. 

"Who's the one sniffing where they shouldn't." 

Brenda’s fear grew at how calm he sounded now, how the impatience disappeared. 

"It's… well… I c-can just handle it, sir—it's—it's no big deal—" David clamped his mouth shut, body going rigid. 

On Black Mask’s desk was a lacquered box, buffed to a bright shine and spotless. Brenda’s gag reflex almost got the better of her when she remembered what had happened the last time he’d opened it. And she was the one in his closest vicinity. She tried standing, but Black Mask buried a hand in her hair, making her sit again as he yanked at the wiry curls, her ass dangerously close to his groin. It took everything she had to stay quiet and not cry. 

“Do you think I’m a man who likes being made a _fool _of, faggot?” Black Mask asked, his hand going further up Brenda’s thigh until his fingers hit the hem of her romper, the leather cold and smooth against her skin. Brenda tried to find a reason to hold onto—she was _gay _for fuck's sake, certainly not in his age bracket, and the person who helped him run his operations. He wouldn't—_he wouldn't. _

_You know that isn't true._

She realized that thinking Roman’s ego was any different from any other overcompensating man was a mistake. A flawed theory she realized she had pushed too far. 

"Tell me, _David, _do you think that _I'm_ an idiot? That—_hahaha." _His voice dropped as he threw his back and laughed, leaning in his chair and dragging Brenda with him, her grip on the armrest the only thing keeping her from resting against him completely. "You’d better have an answer,” Black Mask sang, shifting again and moving her with him to flip the lid on the box and expose the extensive collection within—everything from a straight razor to a fish-carving knife to what looked like a melon baller. Brenda’s stomach twisted as his fingers caressed the handles. 

"N-No, sir—you're not…not an—an idiot, but I—"

"And yet _here _we are—you sittin' in front of me and wasting my time_." _He laughed again, the tip of his finger moving in circles along Brenda's inner thigh. She wanted to throw up, her skin rippled, her back shuddering in revulsion, but she made herself remain motionless. "See, I thought we had a good deal going for us at the beginning, David. You steer the investigation, make sure there's _always _a better candidate—it's not a _fucking _hard concept, this is Gotham after all—and you _tell me_ when the _first sign _of trouble is coming. Not the _second, _not the _third, _but the _FIRST one," _he shouted, almost pulling Brenda's hair from the roots as she hissed in pain. 

_Oh, God—oh, God— _

"I think something's in the water tonight, Brenda." Black Mask pulled a knife out of the box and spun it in his hand, the cool surface of his mask touching her cheek. "I think that _someone _here isn't showing their loyalty very well." 

The hand still on her thigh shoved past the fabric of her clothes, going between her legs as she tried to shove him away. "Roman, wait—_wait_—you're not thinking straight—" He pressed the knife against her throat, keeping her still as a finger slid past the band of her underwear and forced its way inside of her. She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood to keep herself quiet, the tears finally streaming down her cheeks. Dent and David just sat there—the former pretending not to pay attention and the latter unable to tear his eyes away. 

"Are _you_ loyal, David? Or did you _screw me over_ like Brenda did?" 

Past the pain and shame that made her skin feel it was being burned, one inch at a time, past the terror that made her body freeze, like it didn't belong to her at all anymore, like she'd become a doll she was forced to inhabit but not control, Brenda was confounded. He was insinuating that she'd betrayed him, but she'd never done that—she had a smart mouth and talked back, yes—but she had never sold him out. It went against her best interests—but any attempt to find reason in what was happening evaporated when his finger moved and he trailed the knife down to her breast, pressing harder as she whimpered in terror.

"Do I need to _show you_ what happens to traitors—"

"K-Kane—Miriam!" David shouted, hands bone-white as he gripped the edge of his seat. 

Black Mask froze, his hand stopping its ministrations and knife coming away from Brenda's chest. "Come again?" he asked, sounding closer to his usual self than the monster she'd been lucky enough to have just observed until tonight. 

But, like Black Mask, she couldn’t have heard him right. David had to be pulling shit out of his ass, and she was going to be the one paying for it.

"Mir—Miriam Kane. She's infamous for, you know—"

"I fucking _know _who the cunt is, you ignoramus." 

Pushing Brenda onto the floor, Black Mask’s previous demonstration was forgotten. She landed hard on her knee and elbow with a yelp, but she was quick to right herself and press her back against the wall, her breathing ragged and makeup running into her eyes. 

"You could've mentioned _earlier _that she was on the team. That darkie bitch almost _flattened _Midtown!" he shouted, gesturing wildly with his hands, the knife catching the light and held so loosely in his grip that she thought it might go flying. 

Black Mask seemed to forget about her, and Brenda closed her eyes, forcing herself to calm down. She couldn't be this weak in front of them, couldn't sit there and cry even if she wanted to scrub her skin raw with bleach, claw his eyes out of his _fucking _head, give him a taste of his own medicine. But he didn't care about Brenda's hate, her discomfort or her pain. He just kept talking like she didn't matter at all, like what he did was nothing. 

"I didn't—didn't think it was… _relevant _at the time—" David choked, still not totally recovered from what he'd seen. He was unsettled, blubbering like a boy, and Brenda wanted to hit him for how he just sat there and _stared. _

"How is it _not _relevant? When did she even get back?" he mused to himself, turning his head in contemplative thought. He sounded so infuriatingly casual—like he was talking about the weather. "She was Joker's fucktoy or something, wasn’t she? I heard rumours about scars." 

"I—I wouldn't know. She wore lots of—of thick clothes when we met." 

"Yeah, like _that _doesn't scream _issues," _he scoffed, throwing the knife back in its box. It was like he was still inside her, like her body was stretched too thin, vision doubling as the alcohol caught up to her. "Any on her face?" 

David looked flabbergasted, confused, shrinking further into a chair not built to accommodate his large body. "N-Not… really? Not that… that I noticed." 

"Fucking Christ almighty. _Useless—_" Just as Brenda slumped to find relief in passing out, Black Mask snapped his fingers twice. She was terrified to open her eyes, to see him beckon her over to him again, and she found only a small sense of relief when he motioned to the empty seat next to Dent. "Can she be dealt with? Sidelined?" he asked, following Brenda with his eyes as she forced herself upright, her legs shaking as she walked, until she sat down gingerly where he had indicated and stared straight ahead. 

"I don't… think so? I didn't get that vibe. She’s… difficult, abrasive—"

"Vibe? We're going off of fucking _vibes _now?" he snapped, giving David the full force of his attention again. "I don’t fucking _care_ how much of a dumb slut she is, I’m _asking _if she can be dealt with. This fucking moron—I oughta have you _skinned_ right now—" 

Black Mask reached for the box again and David almost flipped his chair backwards, hands out in front of him as he stuttered, trying to find the words to change his mind. 

"One of the higher-ups specifically assigned her and I couldn't get into her computer—not all the way. She—she's only just getting started, I can steer her back—"

"You'd fucking better, for your sake," Black Mask interrupted, pointing a finger in David's face as he leaned forward. He waited until he was sure he had David's full attention, that he didn't need to repeat himself twice. “I wanna know where she lives, what she’s doing at all times, who she’s _fucking—everything. _And you had _better _give updates—_daily _ones—about that shitshow of an investigation. Leave nothing out, ya hear me?” 

David warbled in relief, his entire body coated in perspiration as he looked at Black Mask with the sincerity of a boy scout. “Yeah—yes, sir. I won’t let you down—”

“Get your sweaty face outta my sight, fucking Samwise.” He waved a hand in dismissal, leaning back in his chair as he looked off in thought as David darted up and all but sprinted from the room, shutting the door behind him. "Of course she _has_ to be related to a billionaire thundercunt like Wayne, Jesus. That makes shit difficult. _Christ,_" he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. 

Standing and coming around his desk, Brenda didn't look at him as Black Mask came closer. She didn't know what she'd do if she did. What _he'd _do. 

_Keep your head, you've dealt with worse. Just think of the money, this won't last forever. _

"Wasn't that _fun?" _he asked, gently gripping her chin and forcing her to look up. 

Staring at the mask in the shadows gave the concave hollows and sharp, jagged edges more exaggerated dimensions until he looked like some kind of abomination from a Francis Bacon painting. There was plenty of skin showing around his neck and wrists, but he didn’t look human at all to her when he was wearing that thing, and she didn’t think he wanted to. 

"Fun? _Fun," _she repeated in disbelief, the same attitude that caused his ire resurfacing. It was all she could do not to spit at him, to tell him he was a repulsive lecher, an entitled brat. 

_Not today, Brenda. _

"Oh, baby," he cooed, slapping her cheek lightly with the hand he'd used to violate her, his eyes as hard as the knife he'd held to her throat. "Ya did good. And I hope you learned your lesson this time, huh?" 

But she couldn't say any of the things she wanted. Because he was the one paying her more money than she'd ever thought she'd make. Because he was her boss. Because he was the one with the power. Because she had none.

"Say _yes, _that you _understand, _Brenda." His grip tightened, and she knew he wasn't far from doing _that_ to her again, from going further. 

"Yeah. I understand," she said, swallowing hard and using every iota of discipline she had to stop shaking. 

"Good. Now pull yourself together and wipe your face. You look like a burned-out whore." 

She could _hear _the smile in his voice, the smugness of it. Rage lit a fire in her chest, but she had nowhere to direct it but at herself. She'd be needing more than a glass of wine and a joint to make her sleep tonight. 

"Now… the best way to deal with our little problem," he said, sitting back at his desk and propping his legs up, hand under his chin in thought. 

“Don’t tell me you’re thinking of something foolish,” Dent said for the first time. That was usually Brenda's line, but it seemed that he was taking the lead on being the voice of sanity. 

“I’m _not, _I’m not.” Black Mask waved away the notion, sighing. “Well. _For now,_ anyway. Killing her proves the theory right, and doing away with the _Prince of Gotham’s _cousin isn’t helpful, even if she is a black sheep.” 

Brenda's mind worked even when she didn't want it to, when she wanted to be very far away. She had watched the news like everyone else when the Siege happened. She knew what she'd seen in the videos circulated online, the trash spewed out by sleazebags like Jack Ryder—that Kane was a willing participant, a devil-may-care type, a _Bonnie _to the Joker’s _Clyde, _a rich girl gone horribly wrong. She'd also heard what the Joker's leftovers would say to one another like a gaggle of gossiping hens: that she was nuts, the Joker's toy that he had liked kicking when she was down, a whore that he had let them fuck. The amount of elaborate stories they'd spew about what a good screw she was made Brenda disbelieve everything that came out of their mouths outright. She knew that she didn't know anything at all about Kane—but it was impossible not to account for the fact that she was dangerous, no matter what her original intentions had been. Kane was a wildcard, and they didn't need those in a game where there was already so much on at stake. And Black Mask seemed to enjoy bringing them right to the brink of ruin. 

"We still have our asset in Arkham, don't we, Brenda?" Black Mask inquired, tilting his head to the side and staring insistently at her. Her throat closed up, more tears threatening to spill and make her breakdown completely. 

_That’s not gonna happen, _she thought. She didn’t fight tooth and nail through law school to get where she was only to crumble because she’d made a dumb choice. She’d swallow this like she did with everything else, reason that it was the price of getting rich with dangerous men. 

_What else were you ever expecting? _

"Yes, as long as Strange didn't do any… _unnecessary _treatments in the last two months," she said, clearing her throat and sitting up straighter, her eyes never wavering from Black Mask’s. If she pretended like nothing had happened, he would, too. 

"What's the DL with that? Is he still, er… I don't know, waiting around for _someone_ to fuck with when he's out?" he asked, spinning his chair in a circle, foot tapping to some unheard beat. 

"I keep telling you that's a bad idea—" 

"You don't get to tell me _shit," _he interjected, chair stopping in place to glare. She pinched herself hard enough to bruise when she jumped at the sound of his voice. 

Blinking hard for a moment, she took her time to formulate her thoughts, to find the diplomat buried in her under too much booze. "Joker's an animal you let loose when you're going scorched earth, Roman. We're not there; you'd only lead them right back to you. Laying _low _is what's smart." Her reasoning was sound, she knew it was. But her word was never enough. 

“You’re being awfully quiet over there,” he said, pointing at Dent and pretending that Brenda didn’t exist again. 

“You pay me to consult, not interject,” Dent replied, the motion of his hand stilling long enough for Brenda to see that it was a coin. 

“Well, _consult,” _he said, sweeping out an arm. 

Dent’s expression grew dark, his sneer more pronounced on the whole side of his face. Roman wasn’t the only one who knew the power found in rage. “The Joker's worse than an animal. Don't let him out of the cage unless it's to put him down. _Permanently." _He resumed his movements with his coin, flipping it across his knuckles absently, staring off until it seemed like he wasn’t in the room with them anymore. "Don’t just leave it to David to quash that investigation. They didn’t try to prosecute Kane when they had the chance—the DOJ probably had something to do with that.”

Black Mask cocked his head to the side. “Meaning?”

Dent sighed, rolling his eyes and leaning further into his chair, the picture of disinterest. Brenda wanted to hit him as badly as she wanted to hit Black Mask. _“Meaning _that she’s an attack dog. They have leverage that they can use and get the results they want. Having someone like David run interference isn’t going to work for long.” 

“Are you suggesting something, then?” he asked, his dark mood returning. “Don’t keep it to yourself.” 

Dent sighed again, tucking the coin in his jacket pocket as he turned to give Black Mask his full attention. 

“Caution.” Black Mask rolled his eyes, ready to dig into Dent and say something stupid, but he held up a hand for Mask to wait. “Direct their attention elsewhere while doing nothing yourself. No more shoot-outs, no more sending hit squads. Let Red Hood sink his own ship and make sure the law hits him hard. If they get one they can prosecute and the other goes quiet? Most of your worries will go away.” 

Brenda didn’t know what to be angrier about—that Dent had repeated almost verbatim what she had been for weeks or Black Mask’s more serious consideration of it. 

“I’m not sure that I like that option,” he said after a moment, after _actually _giving it some thought rather than dismissing it outright. It was enough to make Brenda want to find a crowbar. 

“Doesn’t matter if you like it: You asked. There’s your answer,” Dent scoffed, reaching for his glass of whiskey and downing it, face twisting up as the alcohol burned his ravaged skin. 

“Fine,” Black Mask said, throwing his hands up before feign-smacking his forehead with the heel of his palm. He took a deep breath in, his tone petulant and reminiscent of twelve-year-old boys she had known another lifetime ago. “We _wait_, then.”

* * *

“Our little bird in his nest, Eddie?” Red Hood asked, looking through his night scope binoculars at the bar one storey below. Rolling his eyes when he didn’t get a reply, he cleared his throat loudly. “You hear me, you mook?” 

_“...Yes,” _came the begrudging response. 

“Yes to being a mook or yes that the target’s in position?” 

Eddie’s growl was enough to make Hood chuckle and he relented; there was too much on the line for Eddie to screw something up just to get him back for some petty barb. Roman was out celebrating, beyond Hood's reach with a club full of civilians. He wouldn’t take his chances—too many ways a stray bullet could find itself in the wrong body, whether from his gun or Roman’s. So Red Hood would do him one better. 

_An eye for an eye. _

“Get ready to set things off when you hear the safeword, got it? Timing’s gonna be _real _important on this one.” Eddie grunted in acknowledgement, and it was all he needed before switching frequencies. “Tommy, come in.”

_“Tommy here, Red,” _she replied, prompt as always. He shoved his binoculars into the bag at his feet and holstered his pistol before shoving his dagger into the sheath on his thigh. _“Got Tzu lined up. Half her gang’s inside with the new shipment.” _

“Good.” 

Surveillance and due-diligence went a long way—so did having a good chunk of informants on his payroll. Well, informants paid with some of Black Mask’s _liberated _funds. He hadn't gone into this war blind, and he’d been patient, but it was time for action. He wasn’t too torn up about losing a couple of scum-faced vermin on his side, casualties of war and all that, and he couldn’t be seen _not_ seeking out retribution. Vengeance was born and bred into street life, he knew that better than most, and he’d get what was his. 

_Tooth for a tooth. _

And they'd know _never_ to fuck with him. They'd all know who to fear. They'd all remember who came out on top when the dust settled. 

“Get ready to burn the place to the ground.” 

Vasily Kosov and a good chunk of his men were below, embracing Roman’s celebratory spirit and raising their glasses with one another. They thought they got him _good, _that he was on the lam, like a coward with his tail between his legs hiding from Roman’s wrath, that they could have this _one night _for a break as they broke bread together. 

If anything, they should’ve been more cautious but no one ever accused the people working for Roman of being smart. 

“No going back now, is there?” he chuckled to himself, adrenaline giving him a high that made his muscles tighten in anticipation. “Now… just don’t get shot this time.” He didn’t think he could explain away another gunshot wound away to Miriam if she noticed again. Assuming he didn't bleed out tonight. 

He wondered what she was doing, how she was holding up since the last time he’d seen her; when she was curled up next to him, sound asleep. He'd stayed at her place only for five or six hours, sleeping for four of those, but he hadn’t felt more rested in a long time. She'd woken up a little when he had kissed her head before he left, him murmuring about needing to go to work. He'd wanted to stay longer, indulge the idiot in him and—

He shook his head. He couldn't think about her here. Separating the personal from business was a fine line, something he crossed too often, but he couldn't do that this time. His mind needed to be clear; there couldn’t be anything else dancing around and making him do something _stupid _again. 

Standing on the edge of the roof he’d been perched on for the last hour, fixing his mask in place and testing the rappel rope for slack, he made sure it’d hold his weight. He had yet to try this move himself, but he’d seen it in action a couple of times, courtesy of the Bat. It wouldn’t be long until Hood moved on to deal with him next. 

Switching his radio again, he couldn’t help but smile. _“Go.” _

_And karma’s a bitch. _

Red Hood stepped off the ledge of the roof, descending quickly as he aimed at the skylight below and fired twice, shattering the glass and killing one of the men beneath. Cutting the line when he got close, he landed feet first on the long wooden table, dropping immediately to kick one man in the teeth with his steel toed boot by the time they started reaching for their guns. 

_“Yebena mat'!” _one of the Russian fucks shouted, and Red Hood started firing. 

_Time to dance._

Shooting one in the chest and tackling him, he spun as they fell, using the man as a shield and taking another out at the knees, getting the next in the throat. Putting a round in the man under him for good measure, he kicked at the legs of another charging him, every muscle in sync as he flowed like water through split rock, his blood singing and alive. 

Violence made sense. There was order to pain—receiving and inflicting it. A way to bear it and push through. Nothing else mattered. Only where the next shot would come from, when to duck and when to cave someone's face in. 

Getting them before they got you.

And Red Hood did what Jason Todd had been born to do. What he’d always been good at. The military had made sure of that. 

His arm vibrated when he pistol-whipped one man in the face, bracing the next moment to drive his kris dagger into another grabbing him from behind, feeling it pierce the skin right between their ribs. Dodging left and rolling under a table to keep shooting, slugs landed in a bastard's shins and dropped him to the floor for Hood to get a headshot. He didn’t see their faces, only felt their bone and cartilage give way under his fist, the recoil when he pulled the trigger, the bursts of blood dotting the skin of his arms when it painted the room red. 

There’d been eleven by his count before he’d jumped, and now they were down to four. 

It was almost like his days back in training, dodging and weaving, finding cover only to pop up and hit the target in as little time as possible, counting the rounds and reloading his magazine in fluid, practiced movements. 

It was almost like the past and present intermingled, experiences layering until they became one, the smell of gunpowder as close to the smell of home he'd ever experienced. 

It was after he shook his head that he found himself braced behind a door frame, bullets embedding themselves in the wood as the Russians returned fire, shouting to one another and moving in, and Red Hood reloaded his pistol.

_“Ponyal yego!”_

_Ah, shit. _

A man charged forward, rounding the corner and getting in a right hook to Hood’s mask. He felt it crack, the metal and hard plastic cutting his skin, before he grabbed the man’s arm and put it into a lock at the elbow. Dropping, he snapped the man’s arm against his knee, putting a bullet in the bastard’s brain, ending his shriek. 

He was getting tired, but he wasn’t finished yet. 

Shooting blindly, he ran and dived back into the main bar room, the accompanying scream telling him he’d gotten at least one in the leg, and he rolled, keeping low to the ground until he got behind a fallen table. 

_Keep going, get this done._

Breathing hard, he couldn’t tell if he was grinning or grimacing, the stench of piss and vodka overbearing even with most of his face covered. This whole thing was mad; painful, too, for how the stitches pulled at his side, his muscles protesting as the lactic acid built up, but it was _thrilling. _

_Fucking hell, you’re nuts. _

Firing a bullet into the man he’d previously crippled, he left cover long enough to clip another one in the shoulder. When he pulled the trigger again and it jammed, he threw the gun at a man running at him. It was by no means light, hitting him in the mouth and disorienting him enough for Red Hood to clear the table and sink his dagger into the man’s chest cavity. 

_‘C’mon, Lazarus—harder, harder, harder!’ _

He forgot where he was again, everything just a series of movements as he put the last of Vasily’s men down. One by one. 

_‘No place for pussies here, soldier! Dig in, C’MON—’ _

Gritting his teeth, Red Hood hit harder, the studded knuckles built into his gloves digging in as they cracked against the man’s face beneath him. Blood sprayed out, coating his fist and adding to the growing pool on the floor. He only stopped when another came up behind him, Red Hood whipping the back of his fist around to hit the man’s ear, making him fall hard and slap his skull against the dirty tile.

He stilled when the room went quiet, the only sound his distorted breathing coming through the mask he’d need to either fix or completely replace. Leaning down, he wiped his bloody fists against one of the dead men’s shirts, clicking his tongue as he stood in the carnage and his surge of vindication left him, leaving him feeling more hollow than before. 

“I did say _please,” _he grunted, shaking out his fists. 

_Oh, wait… no, I didn’t. _

No one was left to contradict him, and he caught his breath, flexing the feeling back into his fingers, turning off his brain like they’d taught him back in Basic. Staring after the dead wouldn’t do anything; neither would remorse. He’d done what needed to be done; Red Hood knew that. He kept repeating that simple mantra in his head. 

_They got what was coming. _

He found Vasily’s body behind the bar counter, limbs splayed out and eyes staring at nothing. The man had dealt in human trafficking and prostitution, selling people for whatever sick shit popped into their damaged brains. He was the one responsible for that group of women and kids in that basement, waiting for the continuation of hell that Mask and this piece of shit had arranged. Mei Tzu, down in the East End—everything she’d worked for would be up in flames if Tommy did everything right—dealt heroin to teens, had kids as her peddlers. 

These people _deserved _to die. The world didn’t need them. There was nothing to feel bad about here. _Nothing. _

That’s all he kept thinking when he was tackled to the ground. 

* * *

Batman had been on patrol all night, the rain had started pouring after two in the morning, slipping between the gaps in his gear and making his skin clammy underneath. 

His head had been swirling with conflicting thoughts, urges to go back to the Manor or to spend more time with Miriam, but he had worked hard to banish all of them, to concentrate. He'd had four more hours before the sun rose, and he'd intended to do as many circuits of the Narrows, Burnley, and the East End as he could. Things on the front of Bruce Wayne’s life were better, but his time needed to be spent on Gotham, keeping it from falling to a place he couldn’t save it from—from where he’d already let it sink. And he'd do it alone.

He'd been following a lead given to him by a dealer he’d encountered earlier that night, racing through the streets on his Pod. _‘Burnley belongs to Hood—we never go there—they say he's got a safe house there,’ _he’d said as Batman had him against an alley wall, his gauntlet pressing on the man’s throat. 

And so that had been where he’d spent most of his night, monitoring from the rooftops, surveilling the groups he'd come across, waiting to hear the right words in his amplifier for a lead. He’d known that things wouldn’t stay quiet for long. That Black Mask’s increasing aggression wouldn’t go unanswered, that Gordon was struggling to contain the threat alone and Hill had been setting him up to fail, that Red Hood would hit back, but Batman had never expected this. 

Last time, Red Hood had set Batman up, caught him by surprise. But now Batman had been ready, even if he hadn’t known exactly where to look, and he’d been three blocks away when the shooting had broken out. 

Launching himself onto the rooftop of the building closest, a rundown fourplex, Batman raced against time. The body count of the gang war was already too high, there was no de-escalating now—only ending it—and Gordon couldn’t handle this on his own. Batman needed to keep more from dying, to keep all of this from getting worse. 

_He would. _

Blood pumping in his ears, Batman leapt and glided between buildings, approaching a bar he knew was run by what was left of the Kosov and Dimitrov families. The sound of gunfire and screaming grew louder, rapid bursts followed by repeated single shots suggesting a lone gunman against a group. 

_No time to hesitate. _

The skylight was already broken, dark red liquid pooling under bodies laying on the floor. One man was standing, panting hard, hood dropped back with black hair slick with sweat. He had a pistol in his hand, gloved knuckles coated in blood.

_Red Hood. _

Batman jumped—launching off the table and springing forward, he tackled the man to the floor. 

Hood’s body had been borderline limp, but now it was like he’d come back to life. Two cracks of lightning strikes and blocks, an elbow clipped Batman in the jaw as his fist hit Hood in the solar plexus, grunts of effort escaping them as they grappled.

_Fight harder— _

Knocking each other back, Batman blocked a roundhouse kick aimed for his head only for Red Hood to bring up the other leg, hooking it around his neck and bringing them both down to the floor. 

_Need to be faster— _

Rolling back and ready to strike, Red Hood was gone—standing four feet away with his dagger drawn. 

_“Ha! _Always _so fast, _aren’t you, Dark Knight?” he taunted, the deep distortion inflected with a pitch recognizable as human. Flipping his knife around until the tip was pointed down, fists raised after he pulled his hood back over his head, he covered what Batman thought was a streak of white at his widow’s peak. “Past thought, past instinct, eh?” He laughed, rolling his neck as Batman braced himself, reaching for the string of cable attached to his belt. “Always _acting—” _

Batman rushed forward, Hood's knife driving down toward his shoulder and grazing it before Batman feigned left, the blade finding a spot between the plates of his armour. Grabbing a fallen pool cue, Batman swung and hit Hood in the chest, making him double over so he could land another blow on his back. Hooking a batarang wrapped with a cable around Hood's neck as he jumped behind him, Batman yanked, ready to immobilize him. 

But Red Hood was quick—quicker than Batman had encountered even with members of the League of Shadows during his years of training. 

Bringing his knife up, Hood cut the cable before Batman could cinch it tight, rolling back and righting himself, breathing hard. “Gonna have to do better than that, old man,” he said, raising his arms and rolling his shoulders, ready for the next round. 

“This ends. _Tonight,” _Batman growled, the bottom of his boots sticky with blood. “Your days of murdering are done.” 

They circled one another, Red Hood flexing his hands and shaking out the blows Batman had landed. Batman glowered, his muscles tight and ready to burst. There wasn’t much to see of his face but Red Hood was younger, he must be, and he was trained. The longer he watched, the more came together for Batman. 

_Military. Must be special ops for this skill level. But why is he here, operating in Gotham?_

Hood laughed, sardonic and rueful. “Nah, I’m not a murderer. _Killer_, yeah—but I haven’t killed _anyone_ that didn’t deserve it.” 

The distance between them shrunk, each waiting for the other to make the next move. Batman had always done best with the element of surprise, utilizing the dark. Here, fluorescent lights gave the bar a ghostly hue, all blue-tones and flickering bulbs.

“All because you wanna take the high road, huh? Who’s the _real _killer—the one doing what needs to be done for the many, or the coward trying to keep his hands clean while the rest suffers?” He laughed again, almost throwing his head back as he switched hands to ready his dagger. “Gotham’s evil. And you have to fight her where she lives. _I _live there. I’m doing what _you _won’t. Becoming the you you’re _supposed _to be. Working down the long list of sane acts you refuse to commit.” 

Batman almost stilled, his gaze intense as his mind whirred. He had to remind himself that this enemy was different than the others he’d fought before. He wasn’t like Ra’s with his plans for a purge, _cleansing _the city with fire to start again. He wasn’t like the Joker, a devil who wanted to watch as the city ate herself, feed off the good of her people until there was nothing left. This man thought he was doing something _legitimately _good. That he was the next step beyond him. That this was working toward the conclusion his legacy was meant to be. 

When did he go wrong, and how could Batman right the city’s course? Had he missed this like so much else?

But Batman couldn’t let himself believe that. 

_He wouldn’t. _

“No, you won’t,” Batman said, hardening his resolve as he stepped forward.

When the sound of sirens blared down the street, coming closer, Red Hood snarled, dropping his fists as he backed up toward the rear of the bar. 

_Back-up. _

“You know what they say, don’t you?” Red Hood said, bringing Batman's attention back to what was happening in the room. Hood's hand tapped on something by his ear through the hood. Batman approached, ready for Hood to attack again. “When life gives you _lemons....” _

Too late did Batman sense that something was wrong, that Hood’s voice had changed, how his dagger was sheathed and he was inching away. 

“You give life C4.” 

Batman had just enough time to throw himself backwards out of a window before a blast of heat and debris followed, the force throwing him back and smacking his head against the concrete sidewalk. By the time he rose, the bar was hollowed out, replaced with flame and burning bodies as the ground rumbled, shattering _booms _resounding throughout the East End. 

And Batman had a feeling that Red Hood wouldn’t be one of the bodies left behind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've established a bickering, banter-filled relationship between Brenda and Roman up until this point in this story, and I did that specifically. Men like Roman _do_ have fragile egos and do not take well to being "embarrassed" in public. In a setting where it's clear he's in charge and the people there are being paid _by_ him to do work _for_ him, that invokes a different reaction than if the same thing happened in public, where his image is more impacted in his mind, that infringes upon his already fragile sense of self. Sexual assault isn't about desire or attraction - it's about power. The same goes for using homophobic and racist insults and comments - it's a way for the people using those actions and languages to exert control over others, and Roman - and other men like him - are all about control and the power they think they're entitled to.
> 
> Here are the Russian translations for the phrases I use in the chapter: 
> 
> _Moye tvoye_ — what’s mine is yours  
_Yebena mat'_ — holy shit  
_Ponyal yego_ — got him 
> 
> The next chapter should be out on time, and remember that teaser from a couple weeks back? Chapter 16 will be called "We're All a Little Mad Here", and I hope you have an idea of where it's going... but I'm excited to share it with you all! Stay safe and thank you for your lovely words and reviews - especially clv44, Jasmineau, and Minstorai! I appreciate you guys so much, thank you for everything! 💖


	16. We're All a Little Mad Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope this chapter doesn't disappoint you guys, there was a lot, and I mean _A LOT_ of build-up that went into this. I'd love to hear what you think, and things are just going to keep getting wilder, so... I guess look forward to that? 😅💖 Enjoy the madness that awaits...

_The gentle touch of fingertips traces the length of my throat, feeling the jumping pulse and soothing it, never pressing hard enough to indent the skin. Goosebumps, light and sharp, rise in a wave, a shiver starting at the base of my neck, pooling down to my tailbone. _

_It feels… nice. _

_"We're the same, you and me." _

_That voice—so familiar yet distant, something from inside my heart but whispered quietly beside me, deep and raspy—moves the hair by my ear, tickling my skin. _

_"No, we're not." _

_It sounds like me but doesn't—like someone I used to know a long time ago. _

_I don't realize I'm lying in the dark until a light flicks on, illuminating a silhouette—a shape with long tendrils around its head, curls looping in on themselves endlessly, dripping grains of sand in a downward spiral. _

_The feeling from my neck travels to my chin, to my lips to trace their outline, skirting the opening and probing my features. It's like I'm touch-starved, arching my spine without being able to raise my body from the soft earth forming around my limbs, dragging me a little deeper with every inhale. _

_"How do you know? One bad day, Miri. That's all it takes," the first voice says, their breath sweet like vanilla to smell and just as bitter to taste as their mouth drops down to mine, their lips softer than the coarse skin of their hands. "One bad day and you'll see. We've always been the same." _

_I don't… want to believe the voice. Not because it’s lying, but because it might be telling me the truth. _

_The warmth of their lips on mine disappears as I break through some unseen barrier, sinking down into thick water until it fills my lungs. I try to move my arms, to swim upward, and finally see who’s above me. It’s Jason—he’s reaching through where I fell, hand outstretched and straining. _

_He looks afraid, panicked—and I don’t know why. _

_His mouth moves, forming words I can’t hear, his chest wrapped in chains that hold him back. Something like blood forms a halo around his head, burning and bright. _

_I have to help him. _

_He needs me. _

_When I finally have the power to kick my legs and swim, my lungs trying to pull in air and seizing around water instead as what's left of the light dims, something grabs my foot when I’m less than two feet away from the opening. It drags me down—but I don’t get colder, don’t feel afraid. It’s… quiet down here as Jason fades away, warm as arms wrap around my waist, lulling me to sleep as my body rocks gently back and forth. _

_The voice is back, whispering but clear as their hands find my throat. _

_“You’ll see.”_

* * *

Remnants of the dream make my legs shake as I stand under the searing shower water, letting it pelt my chest and neck, willing the sensations of handprints left behind on my skin to evaporate with the steam.

_How am I supposed to do this? _

Everything feels like it’s going to complete hell, and I know that it’s only going to get worse.

_At least that’s not totally on you this time. _

Well, that's what I try to convince myself of, anyway. 

Calling Strange and apologizing—if you wanna call it that, nothing about it was sincere, I’m fairly certain he could tell—about what happened during our first session was painful. _Meeting _him afterward for another short session, having to endure Arkham again, to sit there and stare at his face and _share _and see the fucking look of _elation_ when I told him I was willing to sit down with _him _and _not _be openly hostile was enough to make me cave and go to a liquor store and stock up for a week. Then there was the business of Red Hood blowing up a bar, a warehouse, a boat, and a good chunk of one of Janus Cosmetics' factories down by Ace Chemicals last night. I woke up to Arianna Hill and Twitter losing their fucking _minds—_showing pictures of the burnt-out buildings with the new body count, angry sentiments resembling the fear from the Siege, and a city of millions baffled as to how this can keep happening. 

**If GCPD, HS, and DOD can’t stop a city of terrorists, we need forces that CAN!**

_Gotta hand it to her, Hill knows how to create a media panic._

She's trying to get the city council to vote on emergency policies to hire private contractors and security to "bolster" the GCPD, citing incompetency and calling for more austere measures and leadership to "quash" the "gangs of scum" in Gotham if her Twitter feed is to be believed. 

_She knows how to pick some fancy words for "let's create a military state!", too._

I can't blame people for feeling afraid, for wanting better from the police and for something awful to happen anywhere else for once. It's largely gang members that have been targetted and shot dead, the civilian causalities are non-existent. It's not even the deaths that have the city concerned, it's the worry that it might turn on them, that the lives that _matter _will be affected, that the gang war will spill out of the East End. Batman's done a lot to clean up _his _and Dent's mess, but maybe Soo-ah’s right: Gotham's a lost cause, a place where toxicity pools, poisoning the water and seeping down to the bedrock.

Maybe it was always there, so close to the air we breathe that we forgot to tell the difference. 

The shower helps wake me up, but it doesn't take away the anxiety and pain twisting my stomach, winding me up until I’m ready to snap. There's a touch of a hangover there, too, but I ignore the headache pulsing behind my eyes, how the lights in the apartment have a piercing halo. I won't drink before I go, and I won't take three pills, but… how am I going to get through this without feeling numb? Everything's too sharp, a shard of glass dragging across my skin, circles of intense pressure around my arms and throat. It only gets worse whenever I look at my phone, glance at the digital clock on the microwave, see that in no time at all I'll be doing what I swore to myself I never would. 

_What else are you going to do? Cower with a bottle of vodka for the rest of your life? Don't let him have that. _

But what I realized a long time ago plays on repeat: It doesn't matter _what _he does, the Joker always has a way to win, a way to twist everything around. 

_Only if you let him. _

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean, anyway?" I mutter to myself. 

Rubbing my forehead before towelling off, I scrub my skin too hard and go at my hair until it’s a mass of frizzy curls around my head that only gets more voluminous. I look like a wreck when I catch a glance of myself in the mirror, and everything becomes an odd divide of choices I don’t know how to make. Do I put on makeup, or will that signal that I went through the effort of _gussying up_ before going to Arkham for… whatever the fuck this is. A confrontation? Therapy session? A goddamn reunion? Another reason to drink myself to sleep? They don’t have names for things like this, and I know if I do nothing, he’ll see the bags under my eyes, how I look caged and tired, and think that he won after all.

_You’re in a loop of circular logic—none of this is helpful. _

I know all that, and yet the decisions are paralyzing, every choice carrying weight and consequences and reactions that haven’t happened yet, and it’s _maddening. _

Spending more time with the few items of makeup that I own than I have in the last year, I go for something plain, inscrutable. No eyeshadow, only a little bit of eyeliner, concealer to hide the bags under my eyes and even out my skin, and a simple braid on one side of my head pinned back so it looks like I tried without putting in too much effort. I seem… younger, my cheekbones less sharp, the edges rounded out. It’s… like I’m not staring at my own face, like it’s a careful imitation that doesn’t sit right, that peels at the edges, close to revealing what’s underneath. 

_No, Miri—not today. Don’t think about that today. _

Sighing and rubbing my eyes like it'll make the stress disappear, the world becomes too hyper-focused, moving fast and my brain struggling to keep up, to remember how to do one task after the next. I'm thinking about all the ways today could go wrong, that this will end with something sharp cutting into me, him _laughing _while I cry, no one coming to help, having to lie on the floor and _beg _while he drinks it in like ambrosia. 

_Don’t go there—it’s not gonna happen. It _can’t _happen. _

Strange assured me that Joker would be restrained, that there’d be armed security right outside, that I'd be just fine. All he did was ramp up the anxiety, drive home every fear I have while I had to sit there and keep a straight face. He went over a litany of safety protocols just for the purpose—ensuring I wouldn't do anything stupid like attack him or make physical contact, that I had the _mental strategies_ to keep him from getting under my skin. 

The problem is, I don’t think there’s any amount of preparation that would stop that from happening.

_‘Is that not sign enough that he has too much power over you?’ _

Gritting my teeth, I force myself to be satisfied when I look closer to a disgruntled librarian than borderline alcoholic, but finding something to wear is another layer of complexity I’m probably putting too much thought into. Distracting myself with finding a top doesn’t work as I rifle through my bags, pulling out blouses and sweaters and not feeling right about any of them, scars burning all the while. Everything has a coded message embedded in it, some detail he’s going to throw in my face. 

There's no winning in any of this. 

_This is so stupid… Bruce was right. What did you think is going to happen? What convinced you that this would somehow offer solutions? _

I already hear his voice enough, see him in my dreams, drink to forget his face, the sound of his laughter. What will seeing him again do? 

_Stop, Miri. You know why you're doing this. Don't think about it as some sort of… moment of catharsis waiting to happen because it won't. You have a mission, focus on that. Don't think about what happened. _Don't. 

Breathing evenly doesn't do much as I keep pulling out clothes only to toss them aside, the window of time before I have to leave closing. Everything holds a tell he’ll be able to read—the individual colours, patterns, and fabrics—there’s too much I need to hide to keep me safe, to keep him from seeing anything I don’t want him to. As if on cue, my scars start to ache, the tissue tightening like it does when it rains. 

_Stop overthinking this and fucking _pick _something. _

An all-black ensemble of leggings, a large, oversized sweater, and my combat boots seem to be the safest combination. Give him nothing because there _is _nothing. No colour to apply arbitrary meaning, no way for him to see the scars he left, plenty of room to hide in, to create a barrier between me and him. 

But why doesn’t it feel like it’s enough? 

_It’s not too late. You could just stay here and _he’d _never know. _

I need a drink, _something _to make my skin stop rippling, to keep my muscles from twisting in on themselves, to take away the feeling that everything from before is happening again. 

I can’t do this. 

_I can’t._

“Don’t be so _weak,”_ I groan, gripping the back of my neck as I sit on the bed, willing the world to stop spinning. The Vicodin sits on the dresser in front of me, its contents a siren call. Fingers trembling, I grab the bottle, looking at the little tablets, already yearning for the oblivion they promise. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. “Remember—_remember_ why you’re doing this. He can’t… he can’t hurt you anymore.” 

I focus on my anger. On the rage that made me willing to kill a man, and not just _him. _I’m not helpless anymore. He doesn’t have control in this; _I _do. There was a time that I could spit in his face, when terror didn’t completely break me. 

_Find that again. _

It’s not the same; it’s twisted and marred, inextricably bound to the ugliest parts of me, but I need to brandish it like the knives he’s so fucking fond of. What I told Zareen doesn’t apply here, not with _him_—strength is about protecting yourself, yes, but it’s also about making sure it doesn’t happen again, not letting yourself be vulnerable. Even if that means being the first one to pull the trigger, to bury the knife deep. 

And he won't be first this time. 

_I will be. _

* * *

I managed to make it after all, resisting every urge to turn around, to drive back to Chicago, to call Bruce and have him go with me after all. 

But, just like most of the choices I make, I'm dealing with the outcomes alone, following some small thread that will lead to my unravelling. 

_Don't think like that, Miri. Not today. _

The main lobby of Arkham is just as disconcerting as the first time I came, the white somehow brighter and that distinct hospital smell of disinfectant and sterilization bringing back darker memories: faint sounds of someone screaming, holding her hand as the monitor flatlines. 

_Breathe. _

But that isn’t happening now, that was almost ten years ago. Surely a fear of hospitals is one I can outgrow—what can they hold that I haven’t seen already? 

_Just… Breathe, Miri. _

There are more TYGER guards stationed at the doors and wandering the grounds than I remember, the staff nervous as they stare at their monitors behind reinforced glass and type away, studiously avoiding the waiting area. 

_Or maybe it’s your raving paranoia getting the better of you again. _

I managed to not take anything before coming here, and I wish I had. My hands won’t stop shaking, my back slick with cold sweat, my stomach in my throat and my eyes burning. It’s like worms are under my skin, wriggling and burrowing deeper inside me, eating at what’s left. 

_Breathe. Remember why you’re here. _

Bloody crime scene photos, autopsy reports of people dying after being driven out of their minds with agony and terror—it’s brutal and brings back a different host of memories, ones with the taste of iron and smell of gasoline, but it’s enough to make me feel beyond my own pain. 

_Seem to have that in common with Bruce, don’t you? _

“U-Um, hello, again, Miss Kane,” says a quiet voice beside me. I don’t jump this time, recognizing it from the hesitant stutter. His dark brown hair is dishevelled, the bags under his eyes almost as deep as mine. 

“Eugene, right?” I know it’s his name, hard to forget someone who’s so perpetually nervous, and it comes with a small feeling of pride when I manage to smile and not have it feel entirely hollow. 

“Oh, yes—yes, that’s me,” he says, returning my expression with a friendliness that makes him look almost ten years younger. His hands worry over his coat, almost going into the pockets before he changes his mind, repeating the nervous dance as he rolls back on his heels. “If—if you’d follow me, Dr. Strange is… is waiting for you.” 

With a calmness I don’t really feel, I get up to follow, eyeing up the security badges pinned to the guards as we pass them, the handguns holstered to their hips with the batons and pepper spray. I already have a mental list, adding details to each point and comparing the corners we round to the floor plans I stared at for three hours the night before. 

Instead of taking me to Wing A, where I’ve gone to meet with Strange, Eugene leads me down a long hallway flanked with doors and glass windows covered in thick wire between the panes, signs with a list of protocols and safety reminders. I don’t have to try and recreate that map for long when the wing sign comes into view. 

_WING C. HIGH-RISK WARD. PROTOCOL SEVEN ENFORCED AT ALL TIMES._

“What do the protocols mean?” I ask Eugene quietly, taking in the thick steel doors painted blue. 

“U-Um, you—your bag,” he says, gesturing to my side, eyes fixed over my shoulder. Two TYGER guards stand behind me, making it four including the ones in the security room behind another thick door and a large window of barred glass with a small intercom in the middle. “C-Can’t have… can’t have anything that might—might be… you know…” Eugene trails off, swallowing before giving me a tentative and apologetic smile. 

_Is it so that no one has something to be used as a weapon later or because they don’t want _me _to have anything? _

It’s the paranoia talking again. This is standard procedure; it’s why I have the little mechanism Bruce gave me in my sock and a USB in my bra, not my bag. Nodding, I keep my hands from shaking when I hand it over, detaching myself from the process of them searching it, them having me raise my sweater high enough for them to check the waistband of my pants. 

“Clear,” one of them says, waving us through as a loud buzzer sounds and the doors open for us to be greeted by another three guards on the other side. 

Dread sits in my stomach. Rage, too. There isn’t any fear, not with the small knife resting next to my ankle in my other shoe. 

_You won’t have to be afraid after today. _

Not my best plan, but he’ll be restrained, won’t he? I have my more pressing, immediate plan in my head, and then there's the destructive desire to watch him choke on his own blood, stand over him and watch him die. 

I won’t act on it. I’m not like him. 

_I’m not. _

But… knowing I _could _but _won’t _makes this easier. The illusion of choice, of knowing that I could hurt him if I wanted but choose not to, is one that gives me a feeling of control, a rare thing in my life. He won’t hurt me again. I won’t let him, and now I have a guarantee. 

Eugene leads the way, staying close and the TYGER guards not far behind. The hallway doesn’t look so different from the others and one might not be able to tell the difference unless you were really looking at how the doors didn’t have handles, controlled with electronic locks instead, how the guards on this side have bigger guns, some carrying rifles in addition to a pistol, and how nothing lines the walls—no medical carts, no empty gurneys. It’s all bare, the small windows in the doors blocked with metal shutters. Even if I can’t see them and the walls absorb the sound, I can feel the energy of people behind them, and something… something dark.

“Isolation rooms.” Eugene faces straight ahead and his pace stays even like he didn't say anything. I take the cue, not turning to look at him either as we round a corner. “The—the protocols are just… just levels of pro—procedure for the asylum. Measures to—to implement,” Eugene whispers, dropping his voice further and the stutter returning. 

“Does Arkham really need this much security? Things seem pretty quiet here.” 

He nods, shrugging slightly. “Oh, you know—can’t be too… too careful. Thi-Things are getting—getting a bit… scary, I guess,” he says, chuckling under his breath. Before I can ask him what he means, he continues, “There was an… _incident _a—a year back, and those… the recent m-murders have every—everyone worried and then there—there’s the men in _costumes _running around… it—it’s a lot.” 

Barely catching the bubble of hysterical laughter threatening to spill out, I cough, hiding my grin behind my hand. 

_If only you knew, Eugene. _

“You’re not from here, are you?” I ask, dropping my hand as we take another corner. I’m getting lost, struggling to track how many turns we’ve taken and when. The further we go, the more it feels like we’re entering a prison fashioned as a maze, any trace of the posh decor of the main lobby completely absent. Eugene shakes his head, turning to me for a moment to share a small smile. “There’s… some things you get used to and others you learn to live with.” 

It feels like such an understatement, but Eugene’s smile fades, his pace quickening. 

“How do you guys run a facility like this anyway?” I try not to sound too eager, hoping he takes it as nervous chatter. “I did some work back in Chicago for the Psychiatric Institute to update their security systems, but Arkham looks _way _past what most hospitals have going on.” The asylum looks older and more decrepit the further we go in, but it's outfitted with so much advanced tech almost everywhere in the form of high-end cameras, security panels, what looks like hand scanners on certain doors—it’s a strange dichotomy, and I haven't seen any nurses since we entered the ward.

Eugene chokes, coughing for a moment before clearing his throat and shooting a quick glance over his shoulder. “Yeah—yes, well… we’ve been lucky—lucky to get so much gen—generous state funding.” 

_Bullshit. _

It's true that they're getting a lot of money, but they're not using it in the way the city advertises, with more going into “public security” initiatives in the form of mental health care that functions as a way to commit those deemed to exhibit signs of “deviant” behaviour—anyone can see that much by looking at the public sessions of the city council, and it wasn't hard to find the closed session minutes with minimal poking around. Nothing's ever explicit, hidden by benign words with ill-intent. 

_You know something’s wrong here, so does he. _

“So you must be on a closed network system, then? Keep out all outside access by not being connected to it in the first place?” 

It’s a riskier question, one I hope comes across as innocent, my face carefully blank and mind ignoring what it is we’re getting closer to, what lies at the heart of this _Zaqqum_ with its _djinni. _

“Tech support isn’t my… my main field, but that—that sounds about right.” 

I’m about to ask another question when we come to the end of a hallway with two doors opposite one another. The words die in my mouth, and I'm brought back to Vincent’s House of Fun in Amusement Mile, the rotting walls and mould, a place of decay and suffering. I can hear Noah crying, asking _him_ to stop, Parker begging me to leave, the smell of gangrene and fear filling my nose and smothering the air. It’s all I see, all I can breathe in, my heart beating so hard I’m sure it’ll break my ribs, my throat closing as a scream forms in my stomach, strangling me. 

_It’s not real, it’s not real— _

He's on the other side of one of those doors, waiting. Bruce or Alfred on the floor dying because I came too late. Some sick maze of horrors I'll never be able to escape. I don’t have a gun—why didn’t I get a gun? A knife isn’t enough—_it’s not enough—_

“Are you… are you alright?” Eugene asks, the sounds and smells disappearing in a vacuum that leaves me dazed, ears ringing. 

_Get yourself together, you can't do that with _him, _you can't be so fucking weak. _

My blood’s still racing, boiling hot as my sweater sticks to my back. Nodding, I ignore how the guards stand and stare, their faces impassive. They know who I am, know what happened, know why I’m here. They all know—they all know I’m _nuts _and— 

“You—you don’t have to—to do this if… if you don’t thi-think you—you’re ready,” he murmurs, his hand lightly touching my shoulder and guiding me away from the guards, giving us the illusion of privacy by having our backs to them, a small bead of sweat trailing down his temple. “I could… I could walk to your car, get—get you some water—” 

He looks so… so genuine and kind, like he means every word he says with an earnestness that leaves me feeling guilty for evoking his concern. I want to snap and tell him to back off, embrace the vicious anger that's there to protect me, that do or die impulse. But I think of Zareen. Bruce. Alfred. 

_What kind of person do you want to be, Miri? _

I'm not high, thinking more clearly for the first time in months, but… 

_What is it you're looking for? _

"No, no—thank you, but no." My smile is forced this time, strained and painful and utterly unconvincing. "I'll be alright," I say, my voice firm and back a little straighter. 

I won't cower. I won't let him be the shadow waiting to drag me off in the night. 

_I won't. _

Eugene sighs, another drop of sweat joining the other, his eyes darting back and forth between the guards and me. “It’s—it’s further in, past—past Wing D. Highest level… level of security—authorized personnel only,” he rushes out, his voice almost inaudible as he swipes a key card on the door to the right, holding it open and giving me a smile-turned-grimace. "I—I'm sure I'll see… see you again." 

I want to ask him more questions, find out why he went out of his way to tell me that, to say _no you won’t see me again,_ but that’s not true. I’ll need to keep coming back here—under the guise of seeing Strange if nothing else—because there are still people I can help, people that aren’t me. 

“Miss Kane, please, join me,” someone says, their voice low and distracted. Waving goodbye to Eugene as the guards go around him and close the door, I brace myself to look at Strange, ignoring how the guards flank the exit and their hands stay close to their holsters. “I am pleased to see you followed through, after all.” 

Dr. Strange is smiling, but he still looks like a shark. A short one, sure, but carnivorous all the same. We’re in some kind of observation room, two padded chairs facing a large mirror but otherwise bare. 

_No, that's two-way glass. _

“Yeah,” I say, crossing my arms and trying not to think about how he’s probably going to sit up here and watch, taking notes all the while, and who’s on the other side of the glass. 

“You remember the protocols, yes?" Dr. Strange holds his clipboard and writes something down like the experiment’s already begun for him. “Miriam?” he prods when I don’t reply, his pen stopping. 

Nodding isn’t enough, he raises an eyebrow until I roll my eyes. 

“Don’t touch him for any reason. Keep the table between us, don't stand too close. Shout if I need the guards. I have up to an hour and can leave any time. Don’t give out anyone’s personal information,” I repeat in monotone, remembering the rundown he gave before. 

Strange nods his approval, setting the clipboard down as he stands in front of the opaque glass. “Very good. It is important you remember these things, Miriam.” 

The feeling of worms moving under my skin returns when I catch him staring at my reflection, a baleful smile and an unabashed and keen gleam in his eyes. I turn away, clenching my fists to keep from shuddering. 

“He has regressed in your time apart, Miss Kane,” he says, walking until he’s standing too close to me, something like a cheap imitation of concern in his expression. I keep my feet planted and swallow my unease. “0801 is nothing more than his basic id instincts. He is not difficult to understand, and he has nothing to hurt you with besides the… _ammunition _you bring with you. Remaining calm is the most important task.” 

_Condescending asshole. _

“Yeah. Got it.” 

The look of concern disappears, replaced with that sense of clinical interest. Something tells me this—whatever _this _is—is more for him than it is for me. 

_It serves a purpose. Think about that. _

“Very well,” he tuts, looking up at me from under his thick eyebrows as he picks his clipboard up again and resumes with his notes. “Past the door to the left is a small set of stairs, the interview room is at the bottom. Whenever you are ready to enter, we will begin. There will be no intervention from me unless otherwise stated by you. Do not overexert yourself, this is for _your _healing and catharsis. Are we understanding one another?” 

_I’d like you to understand how it feels for me to punch you in the face. _

“Yeah.”

He’s definitely not happy with the short answers, but he keeps his complaints to himself, pressing a button on the wall until a small buzzer sounds and a red light flashes over the door he pointed to. 

_Breathe._

I think he says something else, but I don’t hear him. I don’t feel the cold of the metal when I open it, feel how unsteady my legs are as I’m surrounded by the narrow brick walls, numb to everything other than how fast my heart is beating.

_Breathe. Just breathe. _

When I get to the door, I hesitate. 

_How did I think I could do this? _

But it’s too late, isn’t it? Even if I pressed Bruce’s little button, it wouldn’t stop these feelings, the constant uncertainty, looking over my shoulder every waking minute of every day, feeling so far from the people I have left. There might not be anything that makes me feel better, but I have to try, right? 

_You’re stronger than he is. _

I’ve never felt like that was true before, but… maybe it is. Maybe it can be, just for today. 

_Breathe. _

The knife's my only comfort when I open the door. 

Heavy and coating my lungs, weighing down my shoulders like I’m walking through water, the energy in the room is overwhelming. A man sits in a chair with his back to me; he knows someone's in the room with him, but he never tries to turn around, doesn't cock his head. His torso's wrapped in thick canvas with large buckles holding it tight, his arms wrapped around himself and his shackled feet chained to the floor. 

_Just like Strange said he'd be. _

I don’t know why I’m surprised that he didn’t lie, but it does give me relief: There's no way someone could get out of that, not before the guards burst in and tackled him to the floor. He can't do what he did before; he's been rotting for almost a year, and maybe this is also like Strange said—maybe he doesn't really remember, maybe he's just a shadow of what I'd conjured up in my head, a ghoul that turned out to be a rat. 

_Why haven't you moved, then? _

But my legs get weak, muscles shaking as they struggle to support me, tremors starting in my hands and working their way up until it affects my breathing, making each inhale ache. 

_He can't hurt you—you _know _he can’t. _

And yet I don’t believe that entirely. 

_Don’t be so weak, Miri. Don’t be that in front of him. _

Raising my chin high and pulling my shoulders back, I walk around the table slowly, each step deliberate as I never take my eyes off of him, his attention never turning to me until I’m standing right in front of him across the table. 

The Joker is the same but also entirely different. His hair, curly and dirty-blond and all the green dye gone, rests just below his ears. Makeup absent and skin pale, the scars bright pink under the blue light, his face looks almost gaunt, the bones sharp and cheeks nearly concave. His eyes are red-rimmed like he hasn't slept in a long time, unearthly and black with sinister mirth, and they land on me, arresting me in place and staring like I might not be entirely real, that this is part of a dream. 

“Oh, well, _hello _there,” he drawls eventually with a cocky grin, scars reaching toward his hooded eyes. 

He's smiling like he'd knew I'd come. He might've not been able to guess when, but I've proved him right. 

_Why doesn’t this feel real? _

My own dreams felt more tangible than this, my nightmares more visceral. I don’t know what to call this, what’s coiling in my stomach and ready to lunge for his throat. Hands holding the back of the free chair tightly, I glare. 

The bastard has the audacity to _chuckle. _

“What, come _all _this way just for a cat to, ah, _catch_ your tongue?” 

Joker’s gaze wanders from mine down the curve of my neck, missing nothing and surely creating a cruel list of barbed observations, and lands on the centre of my chest, tongue flicking out and dragging across his bottom lip in a lazy swipe. It's like my scars glow for him, and they hurt badly enough that I almost wince. It's like I'm not wearing anything at all; I suppress a shiver, tightening my hands into fists and imagining what it'd be like to hit him until my knuckles broke. I should've known hiding in my clothes was pointless—he's seen every part of me already. 

Stripped me down to nothing. 

“Ha _ha_ ha—cat. _Mir-_cat,” he titters to himself, words dripping with ridicule. 

When's the last time my hatred was so intense, like an inferno waiting to burst and take the world with it? When was the last time I wanted to kill someone so badly that I'd sell my soul to make it happen? 

_Easy. When his blood coated your hands. _

_“Shut up.”_ The words act like a slap, loud and commanding and full of hate as black as his heart, and his smile vanishes. “Shut your _fucking mouth, _you bastard. You say _nothing. _You don’t get to say _anything _to me,” I growl, barely holding myself back and ready to snarl like I am a fucking feral cat. 

I wonder if Strange is enjoying the show, whether he’s having second thoughts about this, whether he thinks I might just lose it after all. 

And I decide I don’t care.

Joker raises his eyebrows, mouth popping closed and arms jerking like he wants to raise them in mock deference, growling himself when he realizes he can’t, the metal buckles ringing with the effort. He recovers quickly, expression one of faux-innocence. _My lips are sealed, _he seems to say, like he would’ve mimed locking his mouth and throwing away the key. 

It’s fucking _infuriating. _

We stare at each other, his eyes still wandering over my body, finding my curves and edges, and I take in the man who ruined my life. It’s always his bare face I see in my dreams, sometimes with the scars and sometimes without. It’s the human that haunts me. 

That was my first real lesson. Beneath the smooth, familiar face of the people I know, of someone I might've loved in another life, of every stranger, is another that waits to tear the world in two, monsters waiting to be fed in all of us.

_You could make this stop. _

How many times have I relived what he did, how many times have I imagined with frightening clarity what it’d be like to peel his skin back, watch it separate from the muscle, how it'd feel to sink a knife into his chest _over and over again, _feel the warmth of his blood as it spilled onto the floor, straddling him only so I could watch it grow cold and sticky as I waited for him to die and feel _everything _I did? 

I can see it happening now. Getting my knife out fast enough to stick him in the neck, hearing him choke and gurgle on his own blood, him straining for air and finding none, arms pinned to his sides as he tried to defend himself and unable to do _anything. _

If there was a final thing he taught me, it was to enjoy pain. _His _pain. 

_You could still do it. _

It’s another sort of dance with destruction, humouring the benefits of killing him here, not minding the idea of prison so much if it allowed me to finish what I couldn’t before, shirk off my weakness for a kind of strength no one could take from me ever again. 

I could do it. And I think I’d even be able to _laugh. _

But, all too suddenly, the images ebb away, the tide leaving the shore, sand smooth and unmarred in its absence. I’m left winded, shattered and hollow, the room spinning as nothing fills the dying inferno in my chest. 

Sinking into the chair, I finally tear my eyes away from him even as his never leave me, his gaze only getting heavier with each passing second. “Why am I even here…” I murmur to myself, throat tight and not meaning to have said it aloud at all. 

“How am _I _supposed to know?” he asks, rolling his eyes.

The glare I give would’ve been enough to make anyone else's toes curl, but the Joker sighs, blowing at a stray strand that’s fallen close to his eye. 

“Right, _right. _Shutting up,” he says, closing his mouth into a tight line. Only now do I hear the croaky rasp in his voice, telltale signs of disuse, like it's been a long time since he's said much of anything. His arms twitch, desperate to move, and he growls again before trying to shift in his seat, torso slithering but unable to do much else as the restraints keep him in place. 

And he does. Shut up, that is. 

He was always a person made of too much jittery energy, muscles twitching and small tics in his face going off every once in a while. I would’ve thought he’d say something else by now, start the mind games, the taunting and sneering. But the Joker's patient, waiting for me to begin as his tongue prods the inside of his mangled cheeks. I wasn't expecting this—_any _of this. 

_What did you think was going to happen? _

A more violent reaction, curses spit out and threats of death, gruesome details of my own impending demise spoken in a way meant to terrify me, more visible hatred on his part—something along those lines. 

_Why hasn't he done any of that? _

“I thought of a lot of things I wanted to say,” I half-whisper, clearing my throat and staring at the wall, “but mostly I’m just thinking about how much I wish I killed you.”

He bursts out laughing, doubling over the table and resting his forehead there as his shoulders shake before shooting back up, a wide smirk stretching his lips as his eyes take on a nefarious gleam. _"Oh, _sweetheart," he coos, leaning close, "you _thought _about me? I'm _touched." _

The term of endearment lights my rage anew, my skin crawls, brings out the desire to slam his head against the table until something breaks. “Don’t call me that.”

He rolls his eyes, falling back into his chair like a petulant child. “So many _rules.”_

Saying nothing, I stare at the wall again, weighing the worth of staying or leaving. 

_What do you have left to prove? _

It’s been an exercise in feeling alive, proving to myself that I can get past this, that he’s nothing but a former ghost of himself, a hollowed-out and rotten shell, the grotesque monster I knew underneath all that's left as the illusion of humanity withered. 

But he’s not like that at all. 

“You… cut your hair,” he says quietly. He's looking at me. _Really _looking at me. Not at my chest or my clothes, just my face, the sharp edges of his cheekbones softening for a moment, grin fading. 

Now it’s my turn to feel like I’ve been slapped, hand going to my hair without thinking, gently pulling on a short, curly strand. It’s like before when it was longer, when I’d remember what it was like when he ran his hands through it, gripped it so hard I thought he’d tear it from the roots, when I slashed at it in a drunken rage precisely so I couldn’t feel it brush against my skin anymore. 

But it’s like I’m forgetting, too. Like I can’t remember why I hated him so much in the first place. 

“You look awful.”

I say it with spite, and it’s true—he looks terrible. His hair’s been washed, teeth more or less fixed up from what I can tell, skin clean, but there’s new scars on his face, along his neck and temples, something in his eye one might mistake for fragility. 

The Joker looks like he’s lost something.

“Wish I could, ah, say the _same_.” He licks his lips lasciviously, dropping his gaze to my mouth. But it doesn’t feel like it used to—this is more like a show than anything. One that fuels my fire. _"You're _a sight for sore eyes, though, _hmm?_ My _beautiful _little sweet peach, _finally _seeing her boo in the _Crazy House—" _

I’m back in the bathtub, him stitching the wounds he gave me closed, feeling his fingers linger on my skin as he pushed the needle through. It feels further away for talking to him than it does when I’m alone. It’s easier to dismiss as a distant memory, not as something that actively terrorizes me, almost like when I’m drunk. 

And I’m still not afraid of him. 

“Why do you say stuff like that?” 

He stops mid-thought, caught in a temporary lurch, and cocks his head in confusion. “Uh, wha-_t?”_

“Say things you don’t mean.” 

“How do you know I _don’t _mean it?” He bites his bottom lip as he makes insistent eye contact. I don’t break it this time. 

“Maybe I don’t know for sure. But it’s not like you’re the most… _sincere _person.”

“Miri, I am _wounded!” _If he had the freedom to put his hand against his chest, I’m sure he would’ve. He raises an eyebrow, the picture of false innocence, and I almost laugh. 

I used to think of his eyes as pools of black ink, alive and almost separate beings from the rest of his body. Now they're hard and sharp no matter how much the rest of him might soften, replacements for the knives that were taken away, cutting deep in large arcs, searching for my heart and finding the hidden parts I didn't know existed anymore. 

“You lied.” 

For the first time, I feel close to crying. Because, no matter how much I tell myself I can’t remember, that it stayed permanently fractured in my memory, I _do _remember what it was like on the ship. I remember being uncertain and in pain, confused and afraid when Zsasz tried to— 

_No, not now. Don’t think about that now. _

But Joker was there, wasn’t he? Yes, he was the reason I _was _in that position, the reason I almost died; my rescuer and tormentor, pulling my secrets out, one by one, violating my mind in a way I didn’t think was possible. He’s a pathological liar, a terrorist and a sadist, I know that—always have—but there’s… 

_There's what, Miri? _

Why can’t I name what’s so heavy on my chest now, right above the mark he made? Why am I only feeling it now? 

_'You left.' _

That's almost what comes out of my mouth, but I catch it in time, confusion filling its place. What does that even mean, why am I thinking it now? 

“Said you wouldn’t, and you did.”

I'm still not making sense, and it comes out like an accusation, a call-out of a betrayal. Is _that_ how I feel? _Betrayed?_

_'You don't wanna be alone anymore, so you won't be. _Ask_ me to never leave. _Ask_ me to always be close.'_

I can find anger and hate and rage and pain, but I can’t find blame. 

That’s more terrifying than anything I can think of. 

_“Aww,_ Miri,” he purrs, smacking his lips as his eyes wander, a chuckle forming under his breath. “Did I hurt your, ah… _feelings?” _

“No, I wouldn’t say that’s what you hurt,” I snarl, burying the unwanted thoughts deep in the back of my head. Maybe if I drink enough tonight, I won’t remember this happened at all, that my own mind is so eager to undermine me. 

“Don’t tell me you’re still holding a _grudge,” _he chides. It’s almost like his arms aren’t strapped down, like I can see shadow images of how he would move, all the grand gestures of a practiced performer. 

I don't believe Strange when he says that there isn't a lot Joker remembers. His face tells me everything: He's savouring the memories, rolling them across his tongue, carefully choosing which one to pull out at the right moment. 

It feels like he's playing with me. 

“I want you to die for what you did.” My voice is quiet, but I keep looking back at him even as his eyes beckon to me in a way I thought I might’ve finally forgotten. 

“For, ah, what_-t?” _He laughs darkly, eyes hooded again as self-satisfaction pulls at the corners of his mouth, scars twitching. “You’ll have to be… _specific_.”

A single tear rolls down my cheek; it’ll be the only one I let fall. The quiet stretches between us, neither moving as something unfurls in my heart. It’s poisonous ichor that expands until it fills what he carved out, black pitch that’s waiting for me to drop a match. 

_“For everything.”_

I’ve never felt so much… _malevolence _in myself before, so much animosity that I didn’t even realize I somehow pulled my knife out of my boot, that it’s clutched in my hand, partially hidden up my sleeve, the blade extended. 

_What are you waiting for? _

But his eyes change, almost looking like shards of amber rather than obsidian glass, shoulders sagging as he looks… _younger_. Not in the same way he did at the Mayor’s house when there was the open promise of agony and the guarantee of him deciding whether I lived or died; this is different. I haven’t met this person. This man's face is still ruined and marred, but I don't see hate, the clever cruelty that plays in his gaze, there's… something sincere there, maybe even— 

_No, no. He's a fucking monster, a bastard who needs to die. What the fuck are you thinking, Miri? _

The Joker doesn’t—doesn’t look _vulnerable_. He isn’t fucking _gentle. _

And yet that’s what my eyes are telling me, the pressure in the room easing when he takes his heavy gaze away.

It’s…_ regret _that I'm seeing_. _Something I’ve felt so often myself, something I recognized so easily in Jason. I want to say the Joker’s faking, that it’s another lie. 

But I can’t convince myself that it is. 

Eventually, he lets out a long breath, his eyes resting back on mine. “What, you want an _apology? _Want me to say _sorry?” _He’s trying to sound like he did before, jeering and mocking, but it’s half-hearted, like he can’t quite get himself there. 

_What did they do to him? _

The Joker doesn't forgive, not really, and he certainly doesn't forget. He doesn't feel as controlled as before, not in the same way. It's like he's… rougher, more volatile, but different with me at the same time. Maybe it’s because he’s restrained, finally at the mercy of forces he can’t outsmart or out-do in brutality. 

_What the hell would you know, anyway? _

It's… like those first few days on the ship, when I first called him my _friend_, when he lay next to me and smoothed back my hair, whispering in my ear as I told him everything. 

How many times did I suppress those thoughts, kill them with alcohol? Now it's all I can see, clouding what's true and what happened afterward. 

There has to be a reason for this, _something _that he's doing, a trick or long con he's playing. 

“No. You wouldn’t mean it.”

The Joker laughs in earnest for the first time, coming from somewhere deep in his chest and rumbling like he hasn't done it in years, his face splitting further as tears spring to his eyes. It brings back a stronger memory. When he set that money and that man on fire, when he sicced the Russian’s own dogs on him, when Zsasz was at the bottom of that shaft, waiting to die. 

_‘Y'see, people just need, uh… _permission _to get in touch with their _savage side. An invitation for brutality._ And I'm about to give it to 'em.’_

There’s that simple joy on his face again, like I’m finally in on the same joke. Is that what this is, him getting back in touch with that feeling? 

“Looks like you, ah, learned _something _after all.” He struggles to catch his breath as he descends into mad giggles, one corner of his mouth stretched high in self-deprecation.

I think of the people who've died, the chips in their necks and where they came from. My eyes narrow, searching for marks where they would've made the insertion. I couldn't watch all of his trial, but I remember reading what they said about his declining mental state, reduced everything he did as the violent acts of someone in a high-functioning state of constant psychosis. 

“You’re… different.” 

“Hmm?” The giggles stop as he looks at me thoughtfully, an eyebrow quirked in question. 

“What have they been doing to you in here?” I say it quietly like it'll keep Strange from hearing it on the mics he probably has all over the room, remembering that the mirror is actually a window. 

“You mean, besides the _much-needed_ R&R I’ve been banking?" he sniggers, tongue working over the forked scar on his bottom lip as he rolls his eyes. "Well, wouldn’t _you _like to know.”

It's my turn to laugh, rueful and biting but also tinged with the smallest hint of genuine humour that I hope he doesn't pick up on. 

_What's _wrong_ with me? _

He’s not giving me a straight answer—is that because something _is _happening or is he just… being himself? 

_"So," _he begins, dragging out the word and wiggling closer to the table as best he can, voice dropping to a conspiratorial pitch. "Why are _you_ here?” Shaking my head, I rub at my brow. I don’t have an answer, and he doesn’t give me time to form one. “Here to, ah… get some _comeuppance?_ Throw your last two-cents in before you disappear—_again, _Miss _Bonnie?"_

My heart stops dead in my chest, air hitching in my lungs like I just got sucker-punched. 

_What… what did he just call me? _

Dropping my hand, everything slows down, and I make the mistake of looking at him.

_No—no, why did you do this, Miri? _

"Maybe it's because, _well…"_ He presses his lips tightly together, shying away as something like an uncomfortable thought passes over his face. 

_"Spit it out,"_ I bite, expression hardening as my grip tightens around the knife. He might be having fun poking at the bear, but my teeth are sharp this time instead of blunted. 

His eyes flick to the one-way mirror before moving back to me. A grin temporarily stretches his lips, gaze heavy with something I almost mistake as desire, before he turns serious. _"Maybe… _you missed me." 

_No. No, no, no— _

I _didn’t _miss him. I fucking _didn’t. _He _ruined _my life—_murdered_ my best friend, the man I loved, threatened to kill my family and almost succeeded, tore me down to hell and laughed while he did it. There was nothing _to _miss, nothing to want from him other than a slow, painful death. 

And yet my dreams make me question everything, my every thought thrown into doubt. 

"You don't know what you're talking about, you _crazy _son of a bitch," I say with venom, but I still can't make myself get out of the chair. 

He rolls his neck, cracking it and pulling his shoulders back. I can see his hands moving in the air and urging me to stay, even though they're still strapped down in the straitjacket. "Now, hear me out, I've got a point in there."

My mouth opens before shutting so quickly I almost bite my tongue, and a part of me dies. This is just like when I was in the store when I got back, that night I met Jason, when I saw the news and their _sick _insinuations and labels coupled with the pictures of his _remorseless _face, tormenting me even though we were miles apart— 

"How many people… _understand?" _

Why is his voice so soft while he rips open my scars, why does he succeed in finding those small remnants that I thought died a long time ago, just for me to feel the loss a second time?

"Let me put it this way,” he continues, voice low and soothing while my body freezes, “how many people can you actually _talk _to—well… about _us?_ Hmm?"

I want to refute the insinuation, throw his words back in his face and say that I’ve been able to ease the burden that’s drowning me, had people in my life who understood, set myself on a path of healing, that I'm doing so much better than him, that he didn't—_doesn't _affect me. 

But I can't say that because it isn't true. 

_This was a mistake— _

The Joker smiles playfully, back to his old self, basking in the reward of getting me where he wanted. He knew I’d come eventually, he knew I’d be angry, and yet he’s still under my skin, like we’re back in the Mayor’s bathroom when he took everything I had left. 

"You say you hate me—strong, ah, _sentiment_—but for what, _really?_ Y'know what _I _think…" 

I need to stop this, I need to leave— 

"Shut up." 

Why aren’t I getting up, why haven’t I reached over and stabbed him? It’d be so _fucking simple— _

_"I _think—" 

Helpless desperation chokes me like he did when Wayne Enterprises was falling down around us. I can’t hear what he says, _I can’t,_ even if I already know what it’ll be. 

_"Shut up—" _

"That you won't find, well, _anyone _who understands you like _I _do.” Like his words alone fused my spine together, I’m trapped in my body, staring at him as he succeeds in finding another of my fears, voicing it aloud so as to crush me with it. “Didn't we see into each other's _souls, _Miriam? See what's so _ugly? _And now… we're _stuck _with each other, aren't we?"

How does he do it? How does he manage to take everything I thought I built and make it vanish like a mirage, turn into a sign of my own gullibility? 

The Joker’s having fun with this—waited for me to drop my guard so he could slide the knife in. And I let him. I _knew _this would happen and I gave him all the _fucking _permission in the world. 

Just like before. 

_No. Don’t let him win. He can’t have this. _

He said it all so—so _carefully, _like he really did believe what he was saying, each word soft and a riptide dragging you under without even knowing you’re drowning. 

Something foreign bubbles in my chest, quiet at first before getting caught in an avalanche. I felt an echo of this when I saw Gordon, when he made that comment about Bruce, and I’m laughing. Cackling louder than the Joker had, I double over and hold my stomach as I come undone. 

I don’t even know why I’m laughing, what’s so funny about all this. 

"You want to know why I came here?” I force out, a parody of joy bringing tears to my eyes. “I came here to tell you I'm not afraid of you anymore. You failed. _You're a failure. _Everything you did, everything you wanted—it was for _nothing."_

I’m howling until I’m not, my own voice growing dark as I finally find my murderous intent, the grim knowledge that he’s right but I’ll never let him know it. 

_Not ever._

"Guess what, _Clyde_,” I mock, imitating his tone and my smile turning sickly sweet, just like it’d been when I sang to him as we both waited to die, my side weeping blood. “That's because of _me. _You said I ruin people, but it’s too bad you didn't take yourself into that equation. I'd say it's because you're an idiot, but that would only be half true, wouldn’t it?” 

Elbows on the table and knife still up my sleeve, I lean forward until my face is less than a foot away from his. If he wanted, he could snap his head forward and take a chunk out of my cheek before I could blink. Instead of drawing back, I drop my voice again, malice shaping every word, eye fixing on his lips like he’d done to mine as my mind wanders back to that bright spot of hell that killed almost everything good in me, how it felt when we kissed, that swirl of confusion and fear and revulsion and desire for someone—_anyone _to understand. And, for once, the Joker has nothing to say, just sitting there like he's seeing me for the first time. 

“It's because you're arrogant. _Vain_. So caught up in how—how _smart _you are that you think no one can keep up with you." I laugh again, not really seeing him as I push my hair behind my ears, sounding more than a little mad. My voice is so quiet I almost can’t hear it over the ringing in my ears. "How does it feel to be wrong? To know what suffering feels like? This… this is _one _thing I'm happy about. One person's misery I'm _happy _to have caused." 

I am wrath and I am hate; my scars burn, but they don’t burn for him. 

"Because you deserve it, don't you?" I breathe, flicking my eyes upward and looking at him from under my lashes. "We both know that."

The Joker looks enthralled as I slowly move away from him to sit back in the chair, in a trance that’s wiped the smile from his face as mine grows, a strange tingle forming in my fingertips. 

_‘I'm _fairly _certain that, ah, you've _bewitched _me.’_

Maybe he wasn’t wrong about that, either. 

After a moment, it’s like he comes back to his senses, the weight of my words dawning on him, and he looks genuinely affronted, surprised. He never did see this side of me coming, no one ever did, really. But the flash of anger and vitriol passes as he works his jaw back and forth, eyes hooded as he considers me in a way he hasn’t before. 

I almost think that this is it, that I’ve finally shut him up and I can leave and down a bottle of wine. Out of the chair and almost at the door, a deep breath that doesn’t feel as heavy filling my chest, his voice resonates behind me. 

“I’m… _almost _sorry."

My hand freezes on the knob, blood pooling in my feet until they’re too heavy to move. 

"What?" 

I sound stupid, sluggish as I turn around to gape at him, my bravado and sense of victory leaving me. He’s not even smirking, face entirely serious and borderline apologetic. It’s begrudging, but this is the closest I’ve seen him as—as fucking _contrite. _

"Not sorry for what _I _did,” he continues like I’m not staring at him slack-jawed as he glances down, his knees bouncing. “I was _helping_ you, but I am for…" He trails off, teeth grinding together like the words are glass in his throat, a glare of anger that I haven’t seen since Wayne Enterprises when he was throttling me, but it’s directed at himself. "Wasn't _quite_ supposed to end like this." 

Another mad laugh rips out of me, nearly keeling over as it grows hysterical. 

_Keep this up, and they’ll lock you in here with him. _

But I can’t stop, not until tears pour from my eyes and I lean against the door for support, my chest racked with howls until they almost turn into sobs. 

_“Fuck you,” _I hiss, mania gone and enmity taking its place. "You _murdered _my best friend, you wanted to _murder _me." 

The Joker looks at me with surprise and a mix of something close to shock and admiration. Mirth returning as he licks his lips, he chuckles under his breath. _“Well,_ if it makes you _feel_ any better, I couldn't do it. Maybe it would've been, ah, _for the best _if I had," he says, equal parts bitter and amused. 

"Yeah, the feeling's mutual." 

It’s quiet again as I rub my face, exhaustion dragging my brain down until I feel like I could sleep for weeks. 

_Why did you come, Miri? _

I don’t have an answer for that. I didn’t do anything I wanted—yeah, I know where to look for the servers, I have an in with Eugene. But what else did I get other than more confusion and another reason to keep drinking so I can’t see him anymore, can’t hear him, can’t think about him at all ever again? 

_That mean you think that you can finally leave him behind? _

"Miriam…" he says, sounding so close to the voice in my dream that I nearly sink to the floor, my legs threatening to give out. 

It’s like just being around him is enough to sap everything from me, his voice enough to make me forget where I am, that he’s restrained, that I’ve only been here for less than an hour. I can almost see him stretching his hands out on the table, asking me to take them, even though I know it’s only some fucked up image my mind’s made up. 

"I, ah… I can't lie…” His voice is almost a caress, just like when I was on the floor, just before he cut me open. His head moves back and forth like a cobra, torso moving with him before he lets out a thoughtful hum. “I thought about you _every day. _Did you think about me?" 

"Yes." 

_No, Miri—what have you done? _

I said it without thinking, like an involuntary answer you’d give when you’re half-asleep. 

But I’m awake. I’m awake and I just said _that _to him. 

_What is wrong with me? _

My hand slaps over my mouth, eyes wide, but I can’t take the words back. I don’t have a concussion to blame, no drugs—just something that’s so wrong with me that I’d eviscerate myself after nearly two years of piecing what was left to me back together. 

And the Joker looks absolutely _elated. _

"I _knew_ you would." 

_You need to leave. _

My breathing is too fast, the world spinning off its axis, and I’m not moving quick enough. 

I can’t look at him anymore, see the look of pleasure at my admission, how I’m still doing everything he wants me to. 

"I didn't _lie_, Miri! I'm no-_t_ leaving you, and you just, ah… _can't _get rid of me!" 

Ripping the door open, I run up the stairs. I need to get out, see the sun and breathe in the fresh air and be anywhere other than here.

But his voice still follows me, my own permanent ghost as I remember _everything_. 

There will be no forgetting. 

_"Never." _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confronting the person who inflicted the amount of pain and hurt that Joker did is incredibly difficult. Wanting closure and being able to look your fear in the face and prove to yourself that you're _not_ afraid is understandable but terrifying. Is Miri in a place where she's not making self-destructive decisions and where she can move on completely? No, definitely not. But healing isn't a linear line, neither is recovery. Making decisions that seem to be contrary to what someone who isn't struggling with substance abuse and trauma would do tends to be a self-defeating exercise, because all of us, at one point or another, make decions that work against what would otherwise be in someone's best interest. A major theme in this entire fic is working against one's one self-destructive impulses, even if that process can be frustrating at times. You've stuck with me so far, so I'm asking that y'all have a little faith about the ride I'm taking you on :'). 
> 
> A big thank you to my amazing, wonderful beta, [Khaosprinz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khaosprinz/pseuds/Khaosprinz), for all of her hard work and advice when it comes to this story. And I wanna thank [MrJsHaHaHarley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrJsHaHaHarley/pseuds/MrJsHaHaHarley) & [Jasminau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jasminau/pseuds/Jasminau) for their advice, love, encouragement, and for being such wonderful friends! I appreciate all of my readers, and I can't do this without you. I hope you keep sticking with me to see how this all plays out! 💖


	17. Masks

It didn't matter how many times Bruce went to see Rachel. He always felt a little foolish, plagued with the feeling that he looked the same as he always did when he had been young, gawky and trying too hard with the wrong things, even though he'd grown and wasn't that little boy who had run around the Manor's back garden looking for hidden treasure anymore.

And, it didn't matter how many times they arranged to meet, the same lump always stayed in his throat.

A bouquet of multicoloured alstroemeria and zephyranthes flowers he knew she liked in one hand, an awkward smile he couldn't alter fixed to his face, and words he didn't know how to speak trapped under his tongue, he did what he always did as Bruce Wayne, the reckless billionaire—he walked in like he owned the place.

"Is Rachel in?" he asked the young man, _Paulo_, read the man's nametag, at the front desk. Bruce knew the answer, but polite genteelism was what a _Wayne _would do, and so he did, smiling broadly and cranking up the charm. "We have a lunch meeting."

This was something new for them, a product of months of trying to repair what had no remedy. Even if everything else fell by the wayside, meeting with her was the one activity as Bruce Wayne that he attended to diligently. After leaving the DA's office, Rachel had taken the substantial payout she'd received and started her own outreach organization, helping Gotham's poor that had been directly affected by the weeks-long riots and police crackdowns and combating the measures taken by the city to target the mentally ill. Rachel had always been an idealist in a higher sense than Bruce had ever been able to achieve—he fought the city's worst to protect those who needed it, and Rachel worked diligently to find a way for the city to clean itself without violence, restore its soul from the inside out.

Bruce had begun to wonder whose method would win out over the other, if he could fulfil his mission before it broke his body or Rachel's spirit finally found disillusionment. Or if they were both doomed to fail.

"Mr. Wayne—yes, she's in her office, just past—"

He was hardly listening, walking past the front desk and through the doorway by the time Paulo finished saying Bruce's name.

The halls of the Saint Mary's Shelter, one of the many that Wayne Enterprises funded throughout the city, were old with the wallpaper peeling and wooden floorboards loose, but Rachel had done her best to imbue them with a kind of security that she hadn't known herself in the last two years. He tried to not think about what he'd done to make that worse, denying himself the little he'd done to compensate for how he had utterly _failed._

_That's not why you came, _he thought, face tighter than the mask he wore at night as he passed the people in the hall.

If he let his mind wander to anything else, it wouldn't take long to linger on how he'd failed on more than one front. One catastrophic problem of many that he couldn't make himself talk about directly. Distracting himself with the itch to head to Arkham became so potent it made his eye twitch and mouth pull down into a grimace, but he ignored that, too.

_Miri said to trust her, so… give that a try, for once._

A shiver of unease ran down his back when his hand hovered over Rachel's office door. It wasn't quite noon yet, the shelter was nearly empty apart from the daycare and volunteers. From what he knew, most of the available beds were taken, something he found heartening and worrisome in equal measure.

_One problem at a time._

He knocked twice, the paper wrapping around the flowers growing slightly damp in his grip. After hearing something between _who is it? _and _come in_, Bruce braced himself and walked in, forcing a wide smile on his face.

"Working hard, I see," he said, eyeing up her brimming desk with its high stacks of paperwork, the large window and parted curtains allowing the rare view of the spring sun to filter through the dirty glass, his gaze landing on everything but Rachel.

"Hey," she said, her hands stopping on the keyboard in his peripheral vision. "Is our lunch today? I thought—"

"Alfred made sure to confirm with me. Twice," he said, chuckling through his nose and staring at his shining shoes. There was only so long he could go without looking at her. "And if _he's _wrong, then I really know I'm in trouble."

"Right, right." Her voice was gentle in his ears, soft as spring morning mist, and Bruce made himself stare into her blue eyes rather than rest on her face. He still didn't miss her smile, and he was glad that hadn't changed, either. "It's been busy for the last few weeks. More and more keep coming as things ramp up in the East End."

Even after months of reconstructive surgeries, skin grafts, and physical therapy, seeing Rachel hurt worse than a knife to the chest. He knew that kind of physical pain, risked that and worse every night he went out, but it was nothing in comparison to the agony guilt could level on a person.

"Working on it," he said, giving her a rueful grin and handing her the bouquet. Her hands were what the surgeons struggled the most to fix, her rotary functions limited and the skin not only burned but missing in chunks around her wrists, leaving only scar tissue and cartilage and bone behind. "For you. Thought it'd help brighten up the office a bit."

His smile felt easier then, looking past the burns to see the happiness on her face. She wore a wig, and while she didn't look the same as she had when they were children, the ache in Bruce's chest that he felt around her was just as intense as it had been then.

"How thoughtful of you." She smirked, taut skin drawing back as she stood with effort to replace the dying flowers in a vase in the corner of her office with the ones Bruce had brought. "Alfred remember these for you, too?"

The tension in his face eased as laughter built in his chest. "No, no—I remembered all on my own, thank you for your endless faith in me."

She shot him a look over her shoulder, as much as her back could allow, in good humour. Rachel was lucky that she wasn't paralyzed after being caught in the rubble of the burning warehouse and, like Miriam, Rachel wore long-sleeved shirts and loose-fitting clothing to hide most of the burns and damage to her hands, and Bruce sincerely wished he didn't know what either of their scars looked like.

_You could've prevented it._

There was too much that he could've kept from happening if he'd just _listened, _had done what was necessary—

_If I'd never left at all._

It was a dangerous line of thought to catch himself in, one that wouldn't help him or anyone else. He'd been down that road, and he had to make peace with himself. What that looked like, he still didn't know, but Bruce had to find a place where he could act and think without being dragged down by his mistakes.

He wasn't sure if he could ever find that.

"Are you listening to me?"

Bruce stepped back, caught off guard when he blinked and found Rachel standing right in front of him, bag and jacket in hand. She rolled her eyes in the same way she would when they were children: in a large arc, blowing a nonexistent strand of hair out of her face before cocking her head to the side to raise an eyebrow at him. Even with her face so changed, he was glad that some things remained the same.

"Of course."

"Yeah, right," she scoffed, breezing past him and out the office door, not waiting for him to catch up as she waved goodbye to the volunteers and employees in the offices he'd passed coming in.

Grin faltering before being rigidly stuck back in place, Bruce followed. Rachel's steps were always quick and full of purpose, while Bruce Wayne's were slow, seemingly aimless and casual.

He wished again that he knew how to say what he couldn't put a name to.

The _Wayne _name came with a persona that Bruce never felt comfortable in. He could train for a near-decade to push his body beyond the limits of any average person, but no matter how much time he tried being what he _ought_ to have been—a rich golden boy with the world offered to him on a plate of silver—he always felt like a bad actor in a sub-par theatre troupe, so transparent and hollow, even when everything he did depended on that lie _being_ true. At least, to the public eye.

Bruce wished some of that in-born charm could transfer to how he felt around Rachel, that it would dispel the way his tongue was tied and felt too thick in his mouth. The conversation between them as he drove to the restaurant didn't come as easy as it had when they were younger, but that had been true for years leading up to his disappearance and what had come afterward. It was like he was trapped in a mirror world: Miri was back in Gotham and frank with him in a way he hadn't experienced since she was a young teen, even if it was laced with anger—but she was meaner, scarred and traumatized, more volatile than he ever knew her to be; he and Rachel were making the best of what they had, searching in the dark for _what could be _but never finding anything beyond the odd balance they struck of great closeness and simultaneous vast distance between them that he didn't know how to reconcile; back in the childhood home that simultaneously was and wasn't his, he remained with his childhood guardian that he knew he'd one day lose. It was all the same but so irrevocably different, but he couldn't see for himself what had and hadn't changed in him.

After they'd arrived at the modestly low-key but no less expensive French restaurant, _Gitanes, _and had sat in one of the private booths and ordered their drinks, Rachel and his eyes met before he looked away to clear his throat.

_Why does it feel like I'm a sophomore again?_

"You've been busy," she said eventually, when the silence felt too loud_. _"How nice of you to make so much time for me when you're off dating, who was it this week, Silver St Cloud? _And_ finding new _business _partners to hammer on every night. Are you sure you're not writing a book on the side, too?"

Bruce tried, and failed, to keep himself from wincing. He had seen Silver all but three times before it was blown into a media rage—something about socialites being seen together had the tabloids all but foaming at the mouth and he never understood that particular obsession in pop culture—and he didn't want to discuss who he was and wasn't dating with Rachel. Not when he could still remember that night, when he finally felt Rachel's hands on his bare skin, when things felt _right _before it all fell apart. She was smiling good-naturedly over her steaming cup of tea, watching him get lost in thought, but he didn't miss the criticism. Once again, his attention wasn't where it needed to be.

"Oh, you know, I like to stay active." He attempted to sound light despite the edge in her voice, breeze over the thinly veiled jab at his sham of a dating life, but it didn't take long for conversations to go this way since she'd learned about Batman. She'd developed her own codex of terms to refer to what he did at night without giving anything away, lacing every word with a subtext of meanings and sentiments of disapproval. It could be fun, if he didn't let his ego get in the way. "And keeping up with the competition is smart—gotta have that edge."

_"That's _what they call it? Having an _edge_. Interesting."

His grin faltered. "You know what I mean."

"Do I now?"

Breathing out a chuckle, he shrugged and closed his menu, trying to remember a time when this came easier.

_At least she sounds more playful._

"Are you looking into this Red Hood character?"

Bruce almost didn't think he heard her right. Her voice low as she leaned across the table, she made insistent eye contact. She didn't usually like talking about anything to do with Batman. He narrowed his eyes and nodded. "Why?"

"May I interest you in our afternoon wine selection, Mr. Wayne? Or perhaps you'd like our _soup de jour?" _their waiter asked, stopping at the table precisely when Rachel had meant to speak. She leaned back, letting Bruce order and wave the man away, not noticing how the waiter's eyes lingered on her face and neck, the burns that marked so much of her now. He turned to scold the waiter with some cutting sarcasm, but a look from Rachel stopped him, her head gently shaking. How she managed to not _care—_at least outwardly—was something that confounded him, but he also couldn't help admiring her for it. Meanwhile, looking at her was a fresh reminder of his ever-present guilt and culpability.

He wondered if that's how she saw them, too.

"Had a group dropped off last week that mentioned a man who sounded like him. They wouldn't say much, just that he was the reason they were alive," she said after they were alone, voice still quiet as she took another sip of tea.

_This is new._

"Hmm." Repressing the urge to ask why she hadn't told him sooner, he slowly digested the information, jaw clenching tight as his bruises along his ribs ached. "I'm guessing you didn't report it to the new city task force?" He cracked a smile at her bitter laugh.

"Unless it's Gordon directly, I don't tell them anything. It certainly doesn't help that Hill is advocating for all those emergency powers. It's like the city wants its own armed militia."

"I've noticed. Gordon's working on it." He sighed, wishing for once that they would talk about anything other than this—their weekend plans, her work, how her mother was doing, whether or not adopting a dog was a good idea.

But, she wasn't wrong and it worried him, too. He needed to stem the problem before it got to the point where that level of force was necessary. Run by the Mob and now by fear and close to being turned into a police state, Gotham's problems never disappeared; they evolved, twisting and moulding into something new and exhausting every day.

"How long until that happens? We shouldn't have to wait while drugs are flooding every corner and people are getting shot in the street. The shelter's been full for _months_, and it isn't the only one." Rachel worked to lower her voice, zeal getting the better of her. She reminded him of back when she had been an Assistant DA, when she'd argued her point for hours, so optimistic and determined to do what she thought was right. "At this rate, you and that Red guy could stand to learn something from one another."

Bruce stopped mid-motion, glass half-raised to his lips. He couldn't have heard her right. Rachel didn't know what he did, didn't see the bodies Red Hood had personally sent to the morgue, the devastation he was levelling on the city.

"What, how to maim and murder?" he asked, voice as icy as his gaze. He almost relented when the good side of her face winced, one corner of her mouth turning down.

"That's not what I meant and you know it."

There was so much he couldn't share with her, so much he wanted to say but never would: that things were complicated, that people's intentions meant nothing if not backed by their actions, that the man she thought was potentially helping with a problem caused a hundred more, that he was working diligently to kill him, and that Batman was struggling not to let anyone down. Even though they were speaking again and he loved her, there was only so far he'd let her back into his world. He'd never do anything to put her in danger again.

_Never._

"I'm trying my best, Rach. These things take time, now more than ever."

It was the best answer he had, and Rachel's look of disappointment wasn't anything new, either. He thought she might reply with something bitter, but she bit her tongue, forcing a smile when their food arrived before the waiter disappeared once more. Debates used to be so common between them, but now she seemed to feel as he did—there wasn't much left worth fighting about.

"How's Miri?" she asked after a while, eyes trained on her plate.

_Of course. Alfred must have told her._

Bruce swallowed his guilt before it could consume him, wishing he had something harder to chase it back down his throat than water. "She's… better than I thought she'd be."

Rachel gave him a look of understanding, eyes round and sad and mouth in a firm line. He tried not to think about how his throat tightened. "She knows she can always pop by, right? I'd really like to—"

A loud and insistent vibration in Bruce's pocket cut her off, his watch going _ping _not long afterward. At first, he thought it was Alfred, but then he saw the alert, the one he set up just for the device he gave Miriam.

**EMERGENCY ACTIVATION.**

She'd pressed the panic button. Miriam needed him.

_Why didn't I go with her?_

He shouldn't have listened, he _knew _she couldn't handle this by herself, that she needed someone there—she _needed_ himand he'd let her down again.

_I won't let anything happen, not this time._

Mind alight with a thousand terrible possibilities, each one worse than the last, Bruce shot out of his seat, barely remembering in time that Rachel still sat at the table.

"I need to go—I'll call you later."

"Go where?" she said, following after him and nearly knocking the heavy tray their waiter held out of his hands, dodging in time to grab Bruce's elbow before he pulled away.

"Arkham."

* * *

Rage that he hadn't felt in almost two years had Bruce racing down Gotham's streets, Lamborghini engine revving high as he weaved in and out of passing cars, ran through reds, and blew past any and all signs like they didn't exist.

He'd get there in time. He wouldn't fail—_he wouldn't._

It had been a long time since Bruce had felt so—so _desperate_. He didn't like being in this position again—feeling so weak and _useless. _Perhaps anyone else would've blamed Miriam for this, for her recklessness and stubborn desire to suffer alone, but Bruce could never get himself there, even if he should have.

He needed a plan. It was the middle of the day and Miriam was in the centre of some of the tightest security in Gotham. Going in as Batman wasn't an option and even as a multibillionaire, his options weren't limitless. He couldn't think straight, so he called someone who could at that moment.

_"Afternoon, Mr. Wayne. What can I do for you?"_

"Lucius, I need access to Arkham. Now," Bruce spat out between gritted teeth, swerving into the oncoming lane and passing three more cars as he headed for the highway exit that would lead him to the asylum.

_"Right now? I thought—"_

"Security, cameras, everything—"

_"Sorry, Mr. Wayne, no can do," _he interrupted, sounding grim. Lucius was an astute man, he'd know something was wrong.

"Come again?"

_"They're on a closed system, as far as my sources know, meaning that I can't access squat without being manually looped in."_

_Goddamnit._

_"Wasn't that something Miss Kane was working on?" _Lucius asked before Bruce could think of another solution. His jaw clenched.

"Getting there."

_Think, think._

If he couldn't hack his way in, then maybe if he could get past the front gates first, get inside the asylum…

"What about building schematics?" he asked, taking a sharp left to take a backroad he knew would shorten his trip by five minutes.

_Every second counts._

_"I can send you those right away, sir." _Through his car speakers, he could hear Lucius working in the background. His suit jacket felt too tight, too restrictive, but there was no taking it off now. _"What's this about? Everything alright?"_

There was no need for Lucius to know what was going on. It wasn't that Lucius disliked Miriam, but Bruce knew that what Miriam had done was not something to gloss over, that the trust there was broken. He didn't want to damage further what might be repaired later.

"Just a… blip, at the moment. Everything's fine."

From the way Lucius _tsked, _he knew that Bruce wasn't telling the truth.

_Deal with him later._

_"Well, alrighty then. Expect the plans coming your way any second."_

Not waiting for anything else to further divide his attention, Bruce hung up and forced a calming breath to fill his lungs, to put that empty smile back on his face as he thought of a lie that would get him inside. Not relying on Bruce Wayne for much other than creating a convincing alibi, he preferred to put all his energy into Batman, but the time had come for him to use both.

_Keep using your head. Remember your training. Breathe._

"What's your purpose here?" the TYGER guard asked after Bruce had pulled up to the security gate seconds after having a thorough glance of the plans Lucius dutifully sent.

_Nothing like an eidetic memory._

"I have a meeting with Hugo Strange," he replied, drawing his lips back in a faux-smile. "Should be on his calendar. I'm running a bit behind. Or, wait—a _lot _behind." He made a show of checking his watch like it only just occurred to him, brows drawn up in superficial disconcertion. Everything about Bruce Wayne exemplified the word _smarmy, _and he leaned into that now more than ever. "He should've called ahead of me."

The guard looked at him skeptically, shooting a glance to his partner in the booth to his side. "What did you say your name was?" he asked, finger hovering over the trigger of his semi-automatic.

_Who needs guns at an asylum?_

This wasn't how you treated the mentally ill. Not by a long-shot. Arkham Asylum looked more like a supermax prison with its tall, electrified fences lined with barbed wire, guard towers, and the gray blocks that passed as a healthcare facility.

_One problem at a time._

"Bruce Wayne."

His name was a key that could unlock almost any door in his city, and open up a new world of hurt, but, in this instance, it was enough to floor both of the guards. If there was one thing Carmine Falcone was right about, it was that you'd have to be a thousand miles away to not know his name.

_Nothing like the power of celebrity, _he thought.

"Oh, I… I should have recognized you, sir. Dr. Strange didn't call down to say he was expecting anyone—"

"Huh," Bruce interrupted, making another show of looking at his Rolex. "I guess he doesn't want to go with those new security enhancements. Can't win them all." He shrugged, acting like he was doing them a favour just by being there. It worked; the guard looked off-balance, uncertain. Just what he needed.

"Security enhancements?"

"Yeah. A whole new upgrade from the R&D department. I guess he decided the cost wasn't worth it." He shrugged again, the definition of blasé as he smirked. "Win some, lose some. Have a nice day, boys."

Revving the engine, he geared the car into reverse, hoping against _everything _that his bluff would pay off.

Whether Bruce Wayne was a talented liar or extraordinarily lucky might be impossible to differentiate, but he didn't care as long as it worked.

And worked it did.

"Just—hang on a second. Let me radio it in."

_Nope, nope—wrong direction, redirect—_

"Uh, yeah. Sure. It's your dime."

It was too late to convince the guard just to let him in; he was on the radio with someone, walking just out of hearing distance. Tapping his earpiece, he tried to listen in on the conversation, but he heard nothing but static. Another oddity in a new sea of uncertainty. He'd been trained to stay calm, to plan for every scenario.

But he didn't have a plan for this. For Miriam. He never did.

"You're cleared to go. Talk to Maude at the front desk and tell her you're expected, and show her this," the guard said, handing him a clearance badge and raising his hand in the air for the gate to open.

_That was… easy._

Too easy. There was more to this.

Saying nothing and giving a two-finger salute, just like that, Bruce was on the grounds of Arkham Asylum.

"Have a nice day, Mr. Wayne," the guard called after him, waving hesitantly and looking closer to a juvenile than a grown man with an M-16.

"Way to sound like a suck-up, you kiss-ass."

"Oh, like _you _wouldn't have—it's Bruce goddamn Wayne!"

_Yep… power of celebrity alright._

Imagining Miriam snickering and making a smart comment both made him feel lighter and the panic all the more real.

_Move quickly—make up for lost time._

Parking at a bad angle and maintaining a steady pace as he walked into the lobby, he looked for whomever this _Maude _person was supposed to be. Thankfully, he didn't have to look for long.

"Hi, I'm here to see Hugo Strange," he said to the older woman with frizzy red hair at the front desk, imitating the same tone and expression that he had at the gate. Unlike the guards, he didn't need to say his name for her to know who he was.

"Mr. Wayne!" she all but squealed, hands slapping the desk and jumping in her chair with giddiness.

"That _is _my name." He leaned on the counter, acting like there wasn't three inches of plexiglass and an intercom between them as he dialled up the charm to an eleven. "Or, so they tell me."

Laughing louder than necessary, she waved a hand at him, her infectious energy transferring to the nurse beside her who looked on with awed shock. "Right, right—of course," she chuckled, smoothing her hair behind her ears as her cheeks went pink. "Don't mind me, I'm babbling. You said you're here for Dr. Strange? Let me check his calendar. Just a second."

Bruce's back became warm with sweat, and he resisted smoothing his hair back. People like Bruce Wayne didn't sweat unless they were at the gym, and image was everything until he knew Miriam was safe.

"Oh, it says here that Dr. Strange doesn't…" She paused, looking from the screen to Bruce, brow drawing up in confusion. "Maybe something got switched around."

"Huh, that is certainly odd. He was expecting me," he said, making it sound like it was true and that he wasn't distracted, thinking of a way to get past without someone shooting at him or the asylum going on lockdown.

As she typed, Bruce took in the lobby, clocking six TYGER guards with similar weapons as the ones at the front gate, all the access doors reinforced and shut. If he had to guess based on the plans, she was in the interview rooms somewhere close to a security hub in case something went wrong. That would put her in Wing C or D.

He didn't want to think about Miriam trapped in a room with that maniac any longer than necessary. Blind rage wouldn't help him here.

_This is going to take a miracle._

And in came the fruits of labours (or, once again, a truer manifestation of that luck—something that was sure to let him down sooner rather than later).

"U-Um—Mr. Wayne?"

Turning from the counter, Bruce faced a young man with a slight build and brown hair clutching a clipboard nervously. He looked younger than Miriam, but the badge clipped to his whitecoat made his heart race.

_EUGENE KLEIN. PSYCHIATRIC NURSE._

Bruce really was a lucky man.

"If—If you'd follow me, p-please," he stuttered, motioning to the door leading to Wing C. "It's al-alright, Maude. It was my… my mistake."

She chuckled in response and flapped a hand, and Bruce's mind was whirring. Things were going smoothly—_too _smoothly given the level of security and paranoia funnelled into the asylum like air. But what was he missing?

_Keep improvising. Find out later._

"Thank you."

Giving Maude a more genuine smile and wave of farewell than he'd given the guard, he followed Eugene Klein. Despite the nervous warble, he walked with a confidence and purpose that was otherwise missing from his demeanour. This wasn't who he needed to be with—he needed to break away and start moving as fast as possible to the heart of the asylum. He had three locations where Miriam would most likely be. "If you could just point me in the right direction, I've got it from—"

"You—you're here for Miss… Miss Kane, correct?" Eugene interrupted in a hushed whisper as he swiped a keycard and the door swung open with a loud _buzz _to take them into Wing B.

There wasn't time for pretence. Either this was some kind of trap he couldn't see the purpose of or this man knew something was wrong and wanted to help.

_Go for the middle ground—err on the side of caution._

"What do you think?"

Rounding a corner, Eugene scouted the way, head rotating like an owl, before stopping in an alcove and motioning Bruce closer.

"You—you need to get o-over there. Quickly."

The dread expanded in his chest until he felt like he might sink through the floor. His fingers twitched, aching to curl into a fist. There was something dangerous about being in the asylum. That only became more apparent upon realizing he'd seen security and nurses but had yet to see any sign of the many patients he knew were being housed here.

"Over _where?"_

Nervously jumping at Bruce's tone, he backed up until he was almost hugging the wall. "She… she's…" Eugene trailed off, jaw clenching as if he was deciding how much to say. "She shouldn't—shouldn't have been here… but Strange—"

Bruce waited for him to continue, but Eugene bit his tongue, eyes going wide like he wished he hadn't said anything at all.

"What about him?"

He opened his mouth to speak, giving several stuttering starts before sighing. His expression closed, and Bruce knew not to push. Not when time was running out. "Follow me. We—we're going to take a—a back route to… to Wing C. She should—should still be there."

Containing his nervous panic, he nodded, letting Eugene take the lead. The tech locking every room and powering the cameras was supplied by STAGG Enterprises, he could tell by the make and panelling, but the rest of the asylum looked not dissimilar to what the original had—old, derelict, and neglected.

Something was very wrong at Arkham.

_How could I have let Miriam come alone?_

He wouldn't make that mistake twice.

Eugene seemed to be keeping his word, routing them back toward Wing C and moving quickly. There weren't the same security checkpoints or scanners that there had been from the lobby, and even the amount of TYGER guards they'd passed had become fewer in number. But it didn't matter. The more time he lost, the more it felt like his throat would close, and he regretted that not every situation could be solved by Batman.

"In—in here," Eugene said eventually, swiping them through one last corridor and taking him to the end of a long hall. "Room on—on the right. You… you'll have to make it—it look like y-you forced your… forced your way past me, O-OK?"

Bruce still couldn't entirely tell what kind of play this was, if it was a trick at all or something entirely genuine. He sincerely hoped it was the latter.

Nodding, Bruce released the fury he'd contained up until this point, ripping open the door just for his jaw to nearly drop. Every room must've been soundproofed because he couldn't hear Miriam shouting obscenities until that moment, and time seemed to slow as he stood in frozen shock in the doorway.

Looking from a TYGER guard with a busted nose and blood dripping down his chin to another holding her in a bear hug from behind as she kicked at his legs, adrenaline flooded his body when he saw a needle on the ground, half-empty and an unknown liquid pooling beneath it. And watching it all from a distance in the corner of the room, a sinister, placative smile on his face, could only have been Hugo Strange.

It took everything Bruce had not to pummel the three men into the ground.

"Whatever happened to _do no harm, _Doctor?"

Everything stopped the moment he spoke, all attention zeroing in on him as the guards composed themselves and Strange straightened. It took Miriam longer to calm herself, struggling less but a wild gleam in her eye turning her into a paroxysm of wrath. She almost looked… mad. Borderline crazy.

_What did they do to her?_

He didn't care how vengeful he looked, how _out of character _he was being, he closed the distance between them and twisted the guard's arm around, forcing him to release Miriam and allow her to move back towards the door.

"We were attempting to… _minimize _the harm, Mr. Wayne." Strange stepped closer, waving the two guards back when they moved with him. Bruce stood his ground. "It is unfortunate that we should meet under such unfortunate circumstances. And I will have to have _several _words with the present staff."

Bruce could all but imagine how Eugene must be cringing in on himself in the hall, but he didn't have time to dwell on him. Strange spoke with a foreign lilt that didn't match what Bruce would've otherwise deduced from his short build and apparent Asian heritage—it sounded European, but not like any accent he knew. It was more like an amalgamation of many than a single one.

_Which means it's fake. Unless there's a language out there I haven't heard._

That was the unlikely case, the most likely being that Strange was hiding something.

"By 'unfortunate' you mean catching you doing something illegal?" His face was carefully blank, but he had a harder time keeping the venom out of his voice. He could hear Miriam's laboured breathing behind him, and he saw her lean against the wall in his peripheral vision. "I would've thought the new head of Arkham would be eager to _not _follow in the practices of its predecessor. Maybe it's something that comes with the job description that I missed?"

Blanching for a moment, Strange smiled, bearing his teeth in false joviality. "This is nothing illegal, Mr. Wayne. Perhaps you have heard of it—civil commitment. It is within our purview if the resident caregiver deems it necessary."

The smile disappeared and Bruce knew what Miriam had meant about feeling like she was under a microscope.

"Miss Kane had a knife. My men were attempting to disarm her, and you can see for yourself the results."

Bruce's face went hot when Strange held up the offending knife, one that couldn't have been longer than four inches, and he couldn't help but look at her, see if she'd really done something so foolish. Miriam kept her eyes trained on the ground, her rage matched only with exhaustion.

"I had no choice but to assume that it was for the purpose of harming either herself or others." Strange turned serious, the corners of his mouth dragging down in a mock-frown. "Given her… _fragile _mental state, I have no choice but to—"

"Did she use it?" Bruce interrupted, catching Strange off guard.

_This is where that law degree you never finished comes in._

He might've dropped out of Yale, but he'd bet all his money on his ability to rival any practising lawyer.

"Come again?"

"Did she use it and can you prove intent?" He didn't try to stop himself from being condescending, drawing up an eyebrow as he spoke slower like Strange was an idiot who couldn't understand. "Having a knife on one's person under five inches in the state of New Jersey is not illegal unless it's in the midst of a crime being committed. Yes, Miriam broke hospital policy, but that doesn't prove intent to harm."

Strange's mouth snapped shut, head cocking to the side as he considered Bruce with new scrutiny, eyes narrowed. "Surely you have _seen _Miss Kane's file, yes? It is not a wild claim that she has a propensity for violence—"

Miriam began stammering a defence, looking like she was closer to falling over with every passing second before Bruce put himself between her and Strange. He'd gotten himself in, and he'd sure as hell get them both out.

"If you read her file, you'd know that putting her up to meet with that _psychotic _lunatic after one session was borderline malpractice, which does nothing but prove that you're not competent and should remove yourself as her current psychiatrist." The two guards' eyes darted between Bruce and Strange as though they were watching a boxing match, the one absently pinching his still bleeding nose and the other standing gobsmacked. "Miriam is hardly 120 pounds, deeply traumatized—"

_"Deeply traumatized? _Bruce—"

But he kept going, it didn't matter how much he was exaggerating or stretching the truth. He thought he might burst if he turned to look at Miriam now.

"—and in need of a consistent support system. Is it not in Arkham's mandate to administer all means of help before compromising the agency of a patient? Because, as it appears to me, you've hardly done anything at all. This is grounds for a lawsuit that'll leave you bankrupt. I'll make sure of that. And I'm _fairly _certain my pockets are deeper than Arianna Hills' or yours."

Had Bruce been speaking to anyone else, they would've been cowed in the corner, blathering apologies and sending them on their way. No one picked a legal fight with a Wayne unless they had their shot lined up with more than false pretences.

But Strange wasn't just anyone.

He stared at Bruce like he was a prized dog who'd performed a game-winning trick. Something had gone wrong here, he just wasn't sure _where._

"You are correct, Mr. Wayne, you would be able to out-spend us quickly." He walked forward, hands clasped behind his back, as the temperature seemed to drop a few degrees. "Our patients' care is _always _our highest priority. If you can guarantee that Miriam does indeed prove not to intend harm in the future," he paused, looking at a two-way mirror that Bruce had just noticed briefly, "then you are both free to leave. No more fuss on my account."

Once again, this was… too easy. Bruce would almost say it was orchestrated.

_Why? What does he mean to gain?_

If this tied back to the murder victims and the chips like he and Miriam theorized it did, then it could mean a whole new avenue of trouble was beginning to build.

"How nice for you to frame it like it was a choice," he said, unable to keep out the bite even if his face was still impassive. Finally turning his attention to Miriam, he went to put an arm around her shoulders before she slapped it away, pushing off the wall to stand unsteadily.

_Was she always this stubborn?_

He was certain this came from the Kane side of the family. Suppressing a sigh, he stayed close to her, and they were barely out of the door when Strange spoke again.

"Oh, and please do remember that Miss Kane's government-mandated therapy is meant to take place _here, _at the asylum." The way Strange smiled when he said it made Bruce's skin tighten like it did before he was about to hit someone, adrenaline speeding up what had seemed so slow before. "Do take your time, but we will see you again soon," he said, no longer addressing Bruce and staring intently at Miriam instead.

Bruce could understand why she attacked them better now.

* * *

Leaving the asylum was a blur. All that had mattered was getting out, making sure this wasn't another part of whatever game Strange was playing and making it to the parking lot. He didn't like how close this felt to running away, dodging out before getting the information he needed.

_Find answers later—Miri's more important._

Her legs finally faltered when they left the lobby, and Bruce was by her side, not bothering to half-drag her to the car while she was barely coherent, threading an arm under her knees and picking her up like she weighed nothing.

"Hey—put me down," she protested, squirming as her speech started to slur.

Bruce ignored her, too focused on getting to the Manor before he went back inside and did something stupid. It wasn't until he heard a rapid-fire _click click click_ that he stopped to look around just as he got to the car. He knew that sound from his many years avoiding them.

Someone was taking pictures—the shutter speed high and loud and unique to DSLRs. That meant they weren't far if he could hear it.

"Oh, _shit," _he murmured, close to putting Miriam down to track down who exactly was taking the photos to smash the camera. The last thing they needed was a photo-op—

"What… what is it?" she asked, trying to raise her head. She could barely keep her eyes open, and Bruce started to worry about what they'd given her and how much was in her bloodstream before she knocked the needle away.

_Need to do a tox screen in the cave._

Saying nothing, he lowered her in the car just as she started protesting again.

"I can… I can move on my own—"

"No, you can't. Just—just _listen _for once," he snapped, wincing at how he sounded.

_You'll have to make it up to her later._

"Where are we going?" she slurred, head rolling to the side to stare out the window after he'd slammed the door closed and hopped into the driver's seat.

"Home."

He ripped out of the parking lot, his heart still racing with unused, pent-up energy. He needed to hit something, _hard. _A long training session would take up most of his night until he was calm enough to speak with her rationally.

_And meditation. You can't talk to her when you're like this._

"That doesn't… doesn't answer the question, Bruce." She was barely awake and still eager to fight with him on _everything._

He was beginning to think he should've forced her to stay at the Manor when she got back, after all.

_What happened to all that talk of 'agency'? _he thought, grimacing.

He shook his head. This was different.

_Is it?_

"The Manor. Alfred's preparing your room."

"No—no, take me back to—"

"You're _not _going back there." He didn't wince this time, his unspent anger rising to the surface at the look of Miriam's stubborn expression, unable to understand _why_ she wanted to fight him on this when he wanted—when all he _ever _wanted—was to help her. "What? What do you need there that isn't alcohol?"

A beat passed between them before the stubbornness ebbed away and something broken took its place.

"Fuck you, Bruce."

Only with Miriam did he feel this kind of anger and frustration. He never saw himself as a parent, _ever, _but he'd begun to think that this was the closest he would come to it. He wondered what his own parents would've been like had they lived to see him in his teens—or even how Alfred managed to deal with him so well. Miriam wasn't a teen anymore, but Bruce felt—

Scared.

Bruce realized that he was afraid.

"Why did you bring a knife?" he asked after a long minute, voice considerably softer than it had been before.

"Mmm?" She wasn't listening to him anymore, her body turned and pressed against the door. Like she couldn't be far enough away from him.

"Why did you bring a knife there? He—he could've—"

As often as Batman checked on Arkham to make sure that _infernal _clown never left, that there was always a buffer of safety between him and Miriam, Bruce didn't like thinking about the Joker. Hadn't he already felt the effects of his work enough, seen how it had ripped apart the family he had left, had nearly destroyed the people he loved? But Batman spent all too much time dwelling on the madman, kept the memories fresh of why the Joker shouldn't be underestimated, and he again wondered why he'd let Miriam try to do this on her own.

"I just… I wanted to feel safe," she whispered, voice thick. "Strange… he set this up."

Bruce couldn't help but agree, but that was a problem to solve later.

"You could've asked me—"

"No. I couldn't have."

Any reply he would have formed died in his throat; her voice hit him harder than any punch Red Hood could ever land. What could Bruce say to that? It was four words, but they reverberated loudly in his heart.

Miriam didn't trust him. She didn't want him there, didn't feel like she could ask him for anything.

And he didn't know how to protect her from herself.

"Do you think that… that this gets better?" she asked unexpectedly, and Bruce almost wasn't sure he'd heard her right with her voice still slurred and muffled.

"That what does, Miri?"

"This. Life. Not feeling like…" she trailed off, sitting up to stare at him like she had when she was a kid. Like Bruce had all the answers in the world. "Do the feelings go away? Do you ever feel better?"

He was tempted to pull over on the side of the road. To look at her and figure out what her eyes were telling him. Find a way to make it so she wasn't so… _sad, _so disappointed.

But, just like with Rachel, all the words Bruce wanted to say were trapped under his tongue. So he didn't say anything, just took one hand from the wheel and lay it between them, palm-up, breathing easy for the first time in hours when she placed hers in his.

* * *

_BREAKING: 23-year-old Miriam Kane was spotted leaving Arkham Asylum with Bruce Wayne Monday afternoon. Kane's return, a shock after avoiding criminal prosecution for her alleged role in the Siege that rocked Gotham in the fall of 2014, has residents and officials alike concerned. Commissioner Jim Gordon and Miriam Kane could not be reached in time for publication. Anonymous sources told the _Gotham Times _that Kane was at the asylum visiting the Joker, the man convicted of orchestrating the Siege after being deemed unfit to stand trial and sentenced to Arkham. Is this evidence of collusion, of the rumoured romantic nature which allegedly began in early October 2014? Is Bruce Wayne actively involved, or has he been wrapped into this death cult that surrounds the Joker under Kane's influence? Further investigation—_

"Jesus Christ," Roman muttered, exiting the _Gotham Times Online _webpage as he laughed to himself.

_This what they're passing for news nowadays? Fucking Christ almighty._

Journalism might've been thrown out the window, but at least it was entertaining. Roman couldn't lie, he enjoyed the drama of others, especially when he could watch from the sideline. That Miriam bitch visiting the Joker could prove fruitful for him, particularly if she was as much of a problem as David made her out to be. He could kill two birds with one stone just by doing nothing; she could get herself arrested and he wouldn't have to worry about lifting a finger.

_But what if she and that crazy clown are actually planning something?_

Now _that _wouldn't work with what he had planned. He shouldn't believe what they were writing, everyone knew it was a load of shit, but things took on an extra level of weird with that douche-fuck _Wayne _involved. What was his game?

Roman didn't realize how _enraged _he was at Wayne until he shattered the glass he was holding. Why did it have to be the fucking _Waynes—_always the goddamn _Waynes _that were the source of some of his worst headaches? It was _they _who were so close to running the Sionis' out of town, taking every corner of corporate business in Gotham and then some. But that dipshit's parents were dead. Hell, so were his. This was _his _town now.

_His._

And information was power. Why rely on a couple of hacks to do everything for him? It wasn't _expedient _to do much as his alter ego in this situation. Wasn't much Dent could do for him, either. He meant to listen to Dent about keeping a _low profile _and all, but everyone expected parties from rich people, right? And accidents happened all the time in the most _unexpected_ ways.

Maybe it was time for him to… _flex _a little.

_What's the point of being rich if everybody doesn't know it?_

"Hey, Brenda," he called. It took a minute, but she popped her head through his office door. She looked glum, pouty. Apparently, she hadn't gotten over their little _incident _a few days ago. He gave a half-hearted attempt to not sneer. "I haven't thrown a big shebang here yet, have I?"

Brenda looked ready to clock him but, like a good girl, she'd learned to manage that tongue of hers.

_We'll see how long it lasts._

"No, you haven't." Her face was deadpan, and Roman couldn't help but chuckle, grinning widely as she struggled to stay neutral.

"Well, how 'bout we change that?"

Now she _really _couldn't hide her disdain. He all but cackled as he swept the broken glass onto the carpet. One of the cleaners would get it later.

"What did you have in mind, Roman?"

"Something… _big. _Fancy. Y'know, the works."

He snickered when she rolled her eyes. "Is there a purpose or are you just looking to spend money?"

_Guess there's some things you can't half-ass when you're teaching women a lesson._

"I don't know, make something up. You were always good about that PR bullshit." He waved a hand, standing up just to crush the remnants of the glass under his shoe and dig it into the carpet.

_Might as well make 'em work for their paycheck._

"Who do you even _want _at this party?" she asked, not even pretending to take notes anymore.

"I don't care about that either," he said, making sure to stand close to her, his chest brushing against hers as he walked past. "Just make sure the Waynes are there."

He left her standing in the doorway as the alcohol made the room spin pleasantly and he conjured the image of stepping on two more thorns in his side that kept him from _greatness. _It wouldn't be long, but the whole city would know Bruce fucking _Wayne _wasn't their prince, Roman was, and he was all for a coup, especially if he was the one spilling the blood.

* * *

It had been a long time since the Joker had felt like singing. But, oh boy, he felt positively _light_.

They'd let him back in the recreation room for the first time in over a year. He'd actually gotten to see the setting sun through the windows, finally have a few more faces to add to the kill list he'd been keeping a _diligent _tally of during his time in Arkham, because if there was one thing the Joker was known for, it was returning the favour for _all _the lovely little presents he'd been given during his time in isolation.

It was only a matter of _when _he wanted to deliver the punchline. And he'd make sure it was a good one. A real _riot._

_I got no strings to hold me down  
To make me fret, or make me frown_

The other patients gave him a wide berth as he hummed loudly, half-muttering a few words here and there under his breath to the tune, and he propped up his legs on one of the tables, throwing a hacky sack he stole from _Helen, _or whatever the hell her name was, and caught it again one-handed.

_Oh_, how he had _missed _being able to _stretch _and move, to be able to stand and walk and not even have to wear that goddamn straitjacket.

He didn't see most of the people he recognized before being placed in his _special treatment plan_ anywhere, that took away some of his giddiness. Johnny boy probably had his own room somewhere, the mook, and, knowing Strange, the people like Big Chris that he'd previously tormented were either dead or one step closer to becoming a vegetable. Or they were cured. Weirder things had happened.

But hey, he still had Simon. It didn't particularly matter that he was already well on his way to being _pickled, _Joker liked having a real face to talk at for a change—all the better for him when this one wouldn't talk back.

And, even better than that, he didn't see _her _anymore. The fake Miriam. His personal familiar who'd stuck with him for so long. He didn't need her, not when he had access to the real thing now. And what a _difference_ between the two of them. He didn't know how he survived with just an afterimage to subsist on.

He could still see her clearly, the all-black outfit like she was going to a funeral and the braid he wanted to use to tug her head back and expose her throat. Despite the makeup, she still looked exhausted. Wild. Caged. She was ready to burst out of whatever little box she'd been placed in just as much as him. She just needed more… _encouragement._

And he was all too happy to lend a _helping_ hand.

Seeing her hair so short had been a shock, something that hit differently than he'd anticipated, and her tongue was just as sharp as he remembered, but it was her eyes that struck him the hardest. He remembered in the beginning, before things got so _messy,_ when her eyes had been guarded but so light, unknowing of just how _bad _life could be, when she'd used her anger like a whip only for it to transform into terror and uncertainty, then confusion and searching for comfort—_in _me, _don't forget—_and then all those… _delicious _times when he'd seen the walls she'd built begin to crumble, one brick at a time, until he saw what was _really _underneath.

He'd seen it again that afternoon, just a glimpse of it right at the end. She always was most beautiful when she was on the edge of losing it completely, and, _boy, _had she looked _ravishing._

Miriam was fire, and her flame had grown to match his; encouraged it to fan back to life when he'd feared it might've been snuffed out for good.

_I had strings, but now I'm free  
There are no strings on me_

It'd be a shame when Death came knocking on her door sooner rather than later. It just wouldn't be the way Strange wanted. Because what he'd told Miriam, back in that rust bucket where their relationship had _sparked _and again when he'd carved his claim to her soul on her chest, still held true all this time later.

She was his, and _he'd_ decide when she'd be extinguished.

He snarled when he realized he still didn't know when he wanted that to happen.

_"I've got no strings to hold me down," _he sang under his breath.

His mood was good when he shoved the _unpleasant _side of his thoughts away. He'd seen his sweet peach and he hadn't realized just how much Arkham had effaced until he felt it return to him like a kick to the balls. It made him remember what being alive was like, when things were within his reach again, experience that almost forgotten rush of having a plan work out _so well _and all he had to do was _talk._

_It's what I do best, ain't it?_

It might've been the perfect evening if _Ahab _hadn't decided to spoil all the fun. He'd seen enough of his mug to last more than a lifetime—_and doesn't he know I have some _reminiscing _to do? How doggone _inconsiderate _of him—_but it looked like the doctor couldn't take a hint.

"Good evening, 0801," he said as he approached the Joker's table, ignoring the rambling of the other patients as he pulled up a chair and sat gingerly, his legs crossed and hands folded together.

Joker decided to ignore him for a while longer, throwing the ball up in the air a little higher and waiting an extra second before catching it.

_Get those kicks in while you can, buckaroo._

He growled in annoyance when a TYGER guard appeared out of nowhere and caught the ball and glared down as he hid it inside his belt. The Joker narrowed his eyes and resolved that he'd gut the man and give him some _colourful _replacements for his eyeballs at the first opportunity.

_"Wowie, _twice in one week. Ain't I _lucky," _the Joker said with sanguine mockery, not changing his position apart from dropping his head so he could better stare at Strange and leave him at a _funny _tilt that let him pretend that Strange was already in a noose.

"Do not sound so bitter. I came to give you some reading material."

Strange threw a new file on the table between them, leaning back in his chair with his eyes narrowed and face carefully blank. Joker clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to use his newfound mobility to throttle the man. He remembered what it was like to be electrocuted too well.

_Priority numero uno: Get this _fucking _chip out of my neck._

"I would have thought you would be grateful after having nothing but your own twisted thoughts for company all this time, especially after such a _productive _afternoon," Strange continued, interrupting Joker's thoughts and prompting a quiet growl. He couldn't explain it, but him even _alluding _to Miriam made Joker want to tear out Strange's throat with his bare teeth. But, now wasn't the time for violence.

_Not yet, kid._

Keeping up the tune, he looked at Miriam's updated file, his rage getting hotter when he imagined Strange reading it in his office, all the little _thoughts _going through his bald head as he spent so much time pondering the toy that wasn't his, and Joker's mind followed a rabbit trail of depravity regarding what _else _Strange might do in his office all alone, if something about all this managed to get him hard.

The Joker added relieving Strange of his hands to his long list of retribution he'd get before he'd finally put the bastard out of his misery.

_Hi-ho the the mer-ri-o  
That's the only way to go  
I want the world to know  
Nothing ever worries me_

But that required patience. It would be soon enough when Joker would _finally _have the opportunity to unspool Strange's brains on the tile floor—show that _cockwomble_ just what the Joker had been thinking about in all that time locked in that tiny cell. And he'd enjoy it, particularly since he had guessed where Strange was heading with this whole _scheme _of his.

_And we know how I feel about _schemers_, don't we?_

Reading Strange's observations on his sweet peach just… rubbed—_haha_—the Joker _wrong. _Strange didn't understand her at all. Calling her _fragile_, laying out the little labels with such _gusto, _employing all the psychoanalysis he'd paid too much money for without realizing it meant _nothing._

Strange didn't know Miriam. Not like Joker did.

And Strange would regret pretending that he did. He'd see what came with trying to walk toe-to-toe with him, for not seeing his enemy for what he was: The Joker was the man who could see into the cracks of the world, he'd _seen _into Strange, and he'd hit them all where it hurt the most.

"Hmm, not exact-_ly _going according to, ah, _plan_, is it?" the Joker asked, referring to how Miriam had stormed out in a flurry of wrath and panic and how Strange had failed so _miserably _to get her committed after being shown up by _Bruce Wayne_ of all people. _That _would've been fun to see firsthand. Even more so if Strange had succeeded and Miriam had joined him in here. All that would've been left would be to get Batsy his own room. "How'd you manage to screw _that _one up? Thought sticking people where they didn't wanna be was like a, uh—a specia_lity _of yours, Ahab."

Strange frowned at the nickname, straightening his legs so that he could lean on them and glare at Joker. "It has only been one session, she will return," he sighed, adjusting his glasses, "she does not have a choice in that, but I do believe that she will ask to see you again. Will you be prepared? It would not do if you were rattled, 0801."

_I got no strings so I have fun  
I'm not tied up to anyone_

_'I thought about you _every day._ Did you think about me?'_

The lack of hesitation nearly made him salivate. He had _known_ it, deep in his bones, but hearing her say it out loud made it all the sweeter.

_'Yes.'_

It was almost as good as hearing her call him _Clyde_, letting out that ball of rage and reopening the wounds to let them fester. She was nearly perfect now.

_I'll get her there. _Then _she'll die. Poetic, ain't it?_

Now, Strange hadn't been the most _explicit _with him when they'd struck their deal. _He _was meant to drive Miriam 'to the edge'_—whatever _that's _supposed to mean—_(he knew what it meant) as Strange worked on her from his end.

A _mutual problem_, Strange had called her.

Too bad that Strange really knew nothing, that he'd so _grossly _misread the information in front of him.

_Ah, my sweet peach never learned to stop sticking her nose where it doesn't belong._

Strange hadn't told him this either, but Joker had guessed that she'd done something—_again; seems she has a talent for that—_to put her on the radar of the wrong people. And she didn't have anyone looking out for her this time.

That would change if he had a say. And he always did.

"I will take your silence as an assurance that you are indeed prepared to fulfill your end of the bargain."

_Oh, hell. He's got his monologuing voice on._

He began to drone on, talking about how the Joker needed to _focus, _to _keep that goal in mind _(he'd completely stopped listening at this point), all the while the Joker bit the inside of his cheeks, prodding his scars with his tongue while his fingers lingered over his ribs, feeling that bump of tissue as his expression darted like a school of fish in the water, now light, now dark.

_They've got strings  
But you can see  
There are no strings on me_

"Are you listening, 0801?"

A look flashed in Joker's eyes, like teeth in a wolf's mouth.

_"Mmm." _It took a couple of tries to control the volatile anger just underneath the surface waiting to burst, but Joker dragged his gaze back to Strange's, popping his lips after giving them an unnecessarily long swipe of his tongue.

"Please do tell me if you are _bored, _0801\. I would not want to waste your ample leisure time."

The Joker giggled, sounding close to a hyena, as he finally took his feet off the table and spread his legs wide, arms swinging as he rolled his shoulders back. "Oh, no, no—_ignore _me. I'm just the, ah, _crazy person_ and _you're _the doctor."

Taking the file back, including the same photograph of Miriam Strange had shown him the first time, the good doctor rose to his feet and clicked his tongue. "Your privileges come with a _zero-tolerance _policy, 0801. Your previous behaviours will not be acceptable here. Is that understood?"

_Spoilsport._

Part of the game for now was playing along. So Joker nodded in acquiescence, waving Strange away as the patients' nightly dessert came around, and grabbed a deck of cards from the games shelf before sitting back down, shuffling through them as he shifted his attention to the TV before they'd get their tranqs to keep them down for the night.

He ignored the bad taste in his mouth as he eyed up his chocolate pudding cup after they slapped it down in front of him, the nurses looking at him with fearful apprehension. They'd stopped giving out plastic cutlery—the new ones were softer, more flexible silicone and _especially _difficult to use for stabbing.

_Never say never._

He went to take his first spoonful when he saw what the nurses _deigned _to let them watch tonight. Cackling loud enough to make half the room stop and stare, the Joker doubled over with laughter.

_Just can't get away from you, can I?_

They were playing the news, and just as Jack Ryder's face disappeared—_knew I should've killed that idiot when I had the chance—_a picture of Miriam and someone who looked like Bruce Wayne was slapped on screen. And the Joker was _fairly_ certain he knew where it had been taken.

They were spooling that whole _Bonnie and Clyde _schtick along the banner, spouting a few new conspiracy theories that topped the previous ones for their level of _crazy, _and he couldn't help but keep laughing_._

It was almost like the universe was trying to tell him something.

Taking a big spoonful of his chocolate pudding, he smiled, felt it grow as he watched her on the screen as the news flipped through their little slideshow, felt that pull in his stomach become more insistent and familiar in a way that almost made him _squirm_ as he thought about all the fun he was going to have because, for once, fun was the one guarantee he had.

"What… what are you laughin' 'bout, J?" Simon asked, a small line of drool trailing out of the corner of his mouth when he perked up from his slumped position at the other end of the table.

"Just somethin' funny," he replied absently, gaze too focused on the screen. "You'll see, ah… _soon. _Patience is a _virtue_, y'know."

For a long time, he didn't think it would happen: him getting his control back, that sweet vindication of seeing a plan falling into place—that he'd wither away in this hole as he rotted from the inside out—but now—

_Things are going _my _way._

Simon didn't look like he understood. "W-Why?"

Pulling out the joker card from the deck and holding it aloft, he grinned. "Didn't ya know, Simon? Good things come to those who _wait._"

_They've got strings_  
_But you can see_  
_There are no strings on me_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely people! Thank you for sticking with me, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter and are staying safe with everything going on. Remembering some key details from _There's No Hell Like Arkham_ are important here - mainly, that Eugene is no friend of Strange's and that he was the one who went to Brenda at the end of that story thinking she could help, and that's factoring in again here. My motivation has sort of taken a plunge as the stress of all this ramps up and I'm finishing up my term work, so, for now, I'm going to keep with my two-week posting schedule. I'll see you all again on April 11 💖. 
> 
> And another big shout-out to jasminau, MrJsHaHaHarley, JohnJoestar, and clvn44 and all you beautiful people for reading and supporting this story and me. It means so much to me and you have my gratitude!


	18. Convergence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all - I am SO sorry that this is so late, everyone. This quarantine has been... well, I can't lie - I'm really struggling. My depression is usually bad during 'normal' times, and this has been a level of weird that I'm having a hard time adjusting to. Writing is usually my escape and way to process everything, but that seems to be hitting a roadblock, and I'm trying my best to get through it. Second, thank you so, _so_ much to everyone who left a comment on the last chapter. I will reply soon and they mean so much to me, please never doubt that! I have a lot of worries that this chapter isn't any good, but I hope you can enjoy it and I'll try to have the next one out on time. 
> 
> I couldn't do this without you guys, and you all mean the world to me. Please stay safe out there, and I hope you're all doing well in the midst of all this craziness. 💖

Parker always thought Wayne Manor was haunted. We'd spent entire summers indulging that adventure, searching for what I hoped we'd never find, but I can't help but wonder what he would think of it now if he was still with me, if he hadn't died—do ghosts stay with the building, root themselves in the foundation, attach to the familiar and all that they knew, and evaporate when it all returns to the earth, rendered to dust? Or is it the inhabitants, an eternal search for those they lost, the people they crave that keeps them close?

_Why does it matter? It's not like you believe in them anyway. _

Still, it's something I can't help but think about in this place that is and isn't home. It looks like the place where I spent so many summers, all those long weekends as a kid, and it feels just as lonely now as it did when I was a teenager—like it's missing some essential ingredient that'll make it feel alive.

_Maybe that's your proof. It's the living that makes a home, not its remnants. _

It's hard being here—feeling like I'm trapped in a room that is and isn't mine, surrounded by lookalike furniture and wallpaper but missing all I had before the fire took it away, while I avoid seeing Bruce and Alfred. I've been stuck at the Manor for four days, both because Bruce is an unreasonable blockhead and because, once again, my life has found a new way to come undone. 

_Should've broken Ryder's goddamn arm when you had the chance. _

His slimy grin and the sound of him _breathing _on the news is enough to make my vision go red, for my mind to linger on all the ways it would've felt _good _to make him screech and eat all the lies he ever professed to be truthful. It’s like that with Strange, too—another man I can’t stop thinking about irreparably hurting. I tell myself that they’d deserve it, that they’d have it coming. 

_You really are no better, are you? _

I thought I gave up the moral high ground a long time ago, but maybe that isn't true; maybe I’m still deluding myself that I’m somehow different from the people I hate. Violence is my first impulse—always on the defensive, willing to dole out retribution like it's my birthright. 

That's what happened at the asylum. I wanted to run out of there, never look back, rack my brain about how I could say something so monumentally _stupid _to the one person who hurt me the most and regret my choices on an entirely new level, but Strange had other ideas. He auto-locked the door when I tried to leave, had those guards flank me as he just kept _talking_—pressing on with questions about why I was upset, wanting to go through the answers I gave to Joker, critique my word choice—kept going like his words were splinters he wanted to drive under my nails. 

_And you let him. _

What the Joker said was running through my head—_is _still echoing in my ear, like he’s near enough to whisper it on a permanent loop—and it’s… it was like my vision went red. I _needed _it to stop—I _needed _to ground myself, to remember that he couldn’t hurt me anymore, pull myself out of that downward spiral and Strange wanted to keep pushing me down. 

‘Awww, _Miri… Did I hurt your, ah… _feelings?’ 

And I snapped. 

When I told Strange where he could shove it, the guards were on me, getting me away from the door as he talked in low tones about the precarious nature of sanity like I didn’t already know. The rest is… blurry, out of focus. I don't remember how I got Bruce's device out of my shoe, only that I did, and I don't remember how my knife fell out of my sleeve, how I wound up with someone else's blood on me, why my knuckles were sore, only recalling how the needle was shoved into my arm as Strange kept talking like what he was doing was normal, how it was _for my own good. _It was too much like when Zsasz hit Alfred's car and dragged me out, how Lewis pumped me full of ketamine and left me with the Joker. 

_Something tells me Strange didn't have anything better in mind. _

Thinking about what would’ve happened if I _was _committed, even for a few days, is a new level of fear I’ve never felt before. The Joker looked _terrible. _Like someone tried on more than one occasion to suck out the remnants of his blackened soul. There weren’t any other patients that I could see—and it’s the most likely case that those people being murdered with chips in their necks are Arkham patients. Is that what would’ve happened to me—would I have been locked in a room, strapped down and eventually driven insane? 

_Then how come it hasn’t happened to _him_ yet? He’s still alive—even if he is… different. _

Groaning, I pull the duvet over my head. Despite it being well past noon, I haven’t summoned the energy to go find Alfred and Bruce. They made me stay for the first day, and I wasn’t coherent enough to argue. Being drugged—besides the medical effects of losing control of my limbs, head going foggy as I drifted in and out of consciousness—brought back a whole other host of problems, nightmares that lied in wait. What I wanted to avoid at all costs was thrown out the fucking window—there were people around to hear my night terrors who cared, who were worried when I woke up screaming, who tried to calm me down as I sobbed into my pillow. Worse than knowing that they could see all that is grappling with how I could feel so… _different _around the Joker. Most days, it's like my dreams eclipse reality, my memories resonating at a frequency that will crack my bones, only to forget, for it all to ease away like it never happened in the first place. 

_What is _wrong _with you, Miri? _

There isn’t anything to drink here, nothing to bury the thoughts. Or, nothing I can access. Bruce made sure of that when I was passed out. I almost resent him for it, that he’s taken away one of my only means of controlling what’s otherwise tearing me apart. I tried leaving two days ago, to avoid having Alfred looking after me like I was seventeen and broken again, for Bruce to take all of this as confirmation that he needed to play over-protective parent, but that didn’t work out so well either—Alfred’s better at marrying reason and guilt than I remembered. 

So, I stayed.

Alfred had almost an entire closet stocked and ready to go for me when I got here. When I was coherent again, I didn’t know whether I should roll my eyes or be impressed. They’re more cheery than I like—much of it a similar aesthetic that I would’ve worn back in high school—but the thoughtfulness of it, and the blatant hope that Alfred believed that I’d come back and stay, hurts more than any of the Joker’s knives ever did. 

_How sad is that? _

Slipping on something that _doesn’t _look like Forever21 threw up all over me, I summon up the courage to face Alfred and Bruce sober. Hiding in my room sulking isn’t helping my case to leave. 

_But you’re always one for avoidance, aren’t you? _

As much as I don’t want to be here, walking down the Manor halls with its too-perfect mouldings, new and immaculate paint and flawless marble, I can’t help but relax at seeing it, remembering what it was like to run up and down them with Bruce more than a decade ago. But it’s quieter now than it was then, so quiet that it makes it easy to home in on the faint sounds of life—the low, deep voices and china and ceramic clinking together.

_Kitchen._

I try to swallow my bad mood, pushing my hair behind my ears and mentally suppressing the misplaced irritability. Something tells me I’d feel a hell of a lot better if I could go punch something guilt-free, but Bruce wants me to stay because it's easier to keep out the reporters, for him to make sure that I'm _making good choices, _and because it's easier for him to have Alfred with me so that I don't run off and ‘commit murder’, as he all but said after I asked them to take me home. 

_Don’t exaggerate—he’s not even here and you’re being hostile. You’re not fourteen anymore, Miri._

But that sense of helpless anger never left, only growing and mutating until it embedded itself in my DNA. Extracting it is like asking my hair to turn blonde, for my curls to straighten. And, no matter how much I'd love to visit all the bastards who seem to be so _fucking _determined to throw another figurative wrench at me, how I’d enjoy sticking some large needles in some _choice _places, it wouldn't help. It'd just prove them right, wouldn't it? 

_MIRIAM KANE—ALLEGED CO-CONSPIRATOR REMAINS UNPROSECUTED_

It's a headline that I can't get out of my head, and I'm glad it's not one of the worse ones that I've read. They throw the _alleged _in there, but they talk like I'm guilty, that I had an equal enthusiasm for everything that the Joker did—that I'm a threat of the highest order in need of being locked up in Blackgate.

I'm having a hard time convincing myself that they're entirely wrong. 

A headache pounds behind my eyes, and I nearly trip on the hallway carpet when my phone vibrates. It’s from Jason—as were the last six messages I received. They started casual enough, but I can read the concern in them 

**Hey sunshine. Call me sometime? **

**There's a new Thai place six blocks from the diner. Wanna check it out w me? **

**Adina - everything OK? **

It’s been almost a week since I last saw him, and… I miss him. Something tells me I’m stupid for thinking it, but I really do. I'm still surprised at just how willing I am to have him around, how _good _it feels just to… to be close to him. My face still gets hot when I think about how I embarrassed myself, was so damn close to ruining the one thing that’s separate from my life—my real, punishing existence—by inviting him to my apartment, and I was too much of a selfish coward to call and break things off afterward. 

_And what will he think of you now?_

It’s only a matter of time until one of these messages says _Why did you lie to me? _and I won’t have an answer, not one that he’ll understand. 

_It won’t be long until he hates you, too. _

Voices emanate from the kitchen—not quite raised but loud enough that I can tell they’re arguing. Stopping just around the corner, I’m slapped with déjà vu, like I’ve heard this same conversation before. 

"—No, we're not going—" 

That’s Bruce—and he sounds like he did when he was younger and was being stubborn about something innocuous. It was usually followed by him sighing and rolling his eyes. 

“It’s just a party, Master Bruce, little harm can be done there,” Alfred tuts. I can almost see the pragmatic expression he has when he’s trying to reason with someone—and I was right, Bruce sighs. 

“And hell is just a sauna.” 

Alfred’s laughing, and my irritation drains as I smile, déjà vu turning into nostalgia. I’m sure Bruce is rolling his eyes now, too. "I think it would help appearances, assuage the public’s curiosity—" 

"I don't give a damn about public _curiosity_, Alfred. We're not going to some sycophantic, vanity party where they can have their fill of public shaming—" 

My smile disappears, stomach dropping low in my belly. I want to hide upstairs again, crawl under the warm duvet, live in that small little world where there's nothing beyond it. 

_They’re talking about_ you. 

Typical—no wonder it feels so familiar; it’s a replay of a decade-long strategy they’ve both used—talk about the important things when I’m not around and then act surprised when it blows up in their face. 

"Where are we not going?" I ask, walking into view and leaning against the door frame, my arms crossed.

Alfred looks nonplussed, like he expected nothing else than for me to eavesdrop—which makes me question as to how _stealthy _I'd actually been as a kid—and Bruce seems like he's developing a headache. 

"I thought you might have still been resting, my dear," Alfred says, bringing over a plate of food from the counter and smiling, inviting me to join them.

"What are you talking about?" I ask, ignoring his invitation to eat what looks like fresh biscuits and cheese. 

_Bribing me with food to change the subject. They really must think I'm twelve or something. _

Bruce sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It doesn't matter—" 

"Don't bullshit me," I interrupt. My anger isn't burning in me like I thought it would, not even irritation, and I release a pent-up breath. "Be honest. Please." 

I stare between them, waiting. Bruce's lips tighten into a thin line, dropping that impenetrable wall in his eyes where he won't allow himself to feel, where I won't cloud his better judgment. Because that's all I seem to be good for—stressing him out. Alfred's a better bet—he wants Bruce to start, too. When he doesn't, Alfred walks forward to put an arm around my shoulders, sitting me down in one of the tall stools as he places the plate of biscuits and a small dish of butter in front of me, giving a pointed look to Bruce. 

"Roman Sionis is throwing a charity gala at his hotel tomorrow night," Alfred says when it's clear Bruce won't say anything, ignoring the side-eye he gets for it to focus on me. "It's meant to be a more 'casual' affair, as he phrased it, and very last minute, but he extended an invitation to the both of you." 

"We're _not_ going," Bruce reaffirms before I even open my mouth, seeing the way I sit up straighter.

_He's gotta be kidding. _

"Don't speak for me." The bite's back, that edge of hostility, and I tear into a biscuit to keep myself from grimacing, staring at the golden crumbs littering the plate. "Is it because we were on the news?" 

Bruce’s shoulders drop and he rubs his forehead. "Miri, you don't know these people like I do. This is meant to stroke some egos and invite the first-class pariahs for a laugh. You don't need to be there." 

He sounds angry, frustrated, but I realize it’s not directed at me. He is being overprotective, and I can’t be mad at him for that, for wanting what’s best. 

But it doesn’t mean he’s always right. 

"If there's a chance that this guy's a criminal kingpin, wouldn't it be beneficial to at least—"

"No." 

Bruce is digging in his heels, arms crossed and biceps tensing. It’s a concerted effort to not roll my eyes and groan. "Gathering information is what I'm being paid to do, I don't need your permission for that. Part of Homeland’s deal, remember?” Bruce’s jaw works back and forth, eyes hardening. “The goal is to find out who's behind all this, not for me to personally arrest the guy—"

_"No. _Not after Arkham," he snaps, his word is final as he turns to leave. 

_"You're_ the one who asked me to help." I jump up from the stool, beating Bruce to the door and standing in front of him, matching his glare with one of my own. 

"Help with looking into a chip. Which you can do from here," he says, struggling to keep his tone even. I’m sure by now that he’s glad he missed my teenage years. "You can't bring a knife to this to try and solve your problems, Miri." 

Bruce looks like he regrets the words as soon as they’re out of his mouth, and I struggle to maintain eye contact. It’s like when we were in his stupid sportscar and we left the asylum, when he threw my drinking in my face. He only needed to see those few bottles and cans in the apartment and look at me to have me pegged. I always thought there was so much about us that was the same, and maybe he did too. Maybe he's disappointed because I proved him wrong. 

"So, that's what this is about?” Searching his eyes for answers, I’m unable to read them, to see beyond his frustration and impatience. All I can see is that he doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t want to argue. “You're mad at me," I murmur, posture wilting at the realization. 

_‘You’re alone right now, aren’t you?’_

My chest aches, skin twisting as my cheeks get hot. Why do I have to remember _that _voice, that night? 

_‘Yes.’_

Hands shaking, I push my hair back, tugging on it to distract me from the scars scorching my bones and my back covering in a cold sweat. The room gets dark, light only flickering along my periphery, warm and soft as something sharp buries itself into my skin. It’s like my lips are torn and bitten, my arms cut open and weeping blood, laying on the floor and wishing that I’d finally paid enough to feel whole. 

_‘All alone.’ _

I jump and pull away when an arm goes around my shoulders, grabbing the wrist and twisting it as my chest heaves. They break my grip easily—and I nearly pull back my fist until the darkness ebbs and Bruce’s face is in front of mine, hands hesitating before he puts them on my shoulders, wincing when I flinch at the contact. 

"I'm not… I'm not mad. It's—Gotham isn't a safe place for you. Not after what happened." 

His voice is softer now, eyes open and unguarded, but the anger that’s become my only means of dealing with just how—how _fucking _helpless I am rises in my throat. 

**“**You don’t get to decide that.” 

My breathing’s uncontrolled and everything’s moving too fast—I need to go, to find somewhere quiet, where my head isn’t trying to rip itself apart. I think of the pinky promise we made, how he seemed to mean it, how he wants me here only so he can control what I do. 

_‘How many people… _understand?'

It’s like he’s here with me, the heat of him pressing against my back, Bruce’s hands becoming his. 

_‘I think… that you won't find, well, _anyone _who understands you like _I_ do.’_

_Why does he have to be right about that, too? _

“Good to know you’re full of it, Bruce. That your promises aren’t worth _shit,” _I bite, pulling away, but Bruce keeps me in place, grip firm but careful not to bruise. 

“What happened to _you _stopping when I asked? When things got too dangerous?” 

Alfred looks between us, fretting about how he’s going to smooth this over. He’s happy I’m here, I know he is, and I remember again why I’m not—I never make things easy, never the one to make things right. And it’s always Alfred who’s left patching up what Bruce and I are too stubborn to reconcile.

_‘Didn't we see into each other's _souls_, Miriam? See what's so _ugly? _And now… we're _stuck _with each other, aren't we?’_

I need to get him out of my head—be somewhere else before Bruce and Alfred can keep proving him right, before _I _can prove him right. 

But Bruce is blocking me from leaving this time. “Miriam, I’m just trying to do what’s best.” 

I want to scoff at him, point out how him _trying to do what’s best _didn’t work so well before, that it never stopped people from getting hurt, that’s it’s never enough, that being gone for nearly a decade and then coming back and expecting that nothing would change when _everything_ had was a level of foolishness that beat mine. 

_But what would that do, Miri? _

Taking a deep breath, I swallow my spite. If I’m being honest, it’s not really him that I’m so angry with, and finding ways to make this worse fixes nothing at all. 

“Strange was looking for any excuse to have me locked in there, even if I didn’t have that knife, Bruce,” I sigh, fists uncurling. 

For whatever reason, it wasn’t just sadistic satisfaction that he set up that meeting with the Joker, that he made sure to emphasize that I’d have to come back. Bruce takes his hands away, running one through his hair as he stares at the floor in thought, eyebrows pinched together. 

“Were there not cameras at that warehouse—the ones you meant to disable before those men came?” Alfred pipes in, face alight with realization. 

“Yeah, one camera definitely was on me that I could tell.” 

“That means they could, theoretically, know _you_ were there before it was set on fire,” Bruce says as he pushes away from the door. I narrow my eyes as I follow his line of thought. “If STAGG Enterprises is supplying medical supplies to Arkham, and if the victims are coming from the asylum…”

“Then Strange is… what, trying to have me committed because he knew I was there?” I ask, trying to envision how that would’ve helped Strange at all. Surely he would’ve known it wouldn't have worked, right? Not for long, anyway. 

“I think he’s trying to make you go away, Miriam.”

That makes my blood run cold—thinking about it concretely and not in the context of it being an outlandish nightmare. Is that why he wanted me to see the Joker? To provoke _me_ into doing something? 

_You definitely didn't disappoint, did you? _

My throat gets tight, my vision of being strapped down in a cold room and being more helpless than ever is too close to becoming real. “And it’s… it’s not like I can’t go back. He—he said as much. Naomi said that’s where I had to go, and if—if I tell her about any of this—”

“No, you can’t do that,” Bruce interrupts before the panic completely takes over, shaking his head. I'm glad he agrees, because I'm pretty sure Naomi would kill me if I told her I was doing a side investigation. Eyes heavy, my mind's tired from trying to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do about all this, and just how I managed to get into this mess. 

_Don't forget—it was by talking to the wrong person, making a 'friend' who doesn't want to let you go, giving up everything without knowing the cost. _

“You’re going to be the death of me, you know that?” 

My head snaps up, expecting to see Bruce looking grim and expression full of blame, but he's grinning wryly, eyes lighter than they were before. 

“I thought moonlighting as a furry with shurikens would do it first,” I mutter under my breath, just loud enough for him to hear, and give him a sanguine grin in return. 

Bruce chokes when he takes a swig of water and Alfred looks at us both in confusion, and I'm laughing—_genuinely _laughing with them for the first time in what feels like years. I let my thoughts about ghosts drift, accepting that maybe our old lives died with the first house, taking all the hurt and memories with it, and that there might be a chance at building beyond what we had broken—that it's here, waiting for us, that we just have to stretch out and try. 

"Shall I start pressing your suit jackets then, sir?" 

Bruce sighs and rubs the back of his neck, grumbling in agreement, and, somehow, I've won—tenuous and fragile though it may be. 

* * *

_What is it with rich people buying hotels? _

_La Castillo Santa Prisca _is a looming behemoth, towering over our heads and glowing with large spotlights illuminating sixty storeys worth of windows and gothic revival carvings. I remember when they built it, when Midtown extended out, gentrifying poorer neighbourhoods with expensive condos, skyscrapers with law firms, and more immaculate hotels that very few can afford. It's a lot, even for Gotham, with its elaborate gardens and large fountain at the front and valet staff waiting on the arriving guests. The Sionis family bought it a few years ago and renovated the place to be one of the best in the city, and they saved the top three floors for themselves to make the most expensive condo in Gotham. Unlike my aunt and uncle, they didn't do a lot to bridge the wealth gap. 

_But the Sionis' are dead now—Roman's the only one left. _

Reporters and paparazzi with nothing better to do line the entryway, and arriving guests make sure to stop long enough to smile big and pose, women with their backs arched and necks craned at painful angles and the men trying to look suave like they're Lex Luthor or something. For something meant to be 'casual', as the invitation put it, everyone's dressed up in fancy dresses and souped-up suits, hair twisted in elaborate knots and tousled to look like they don't care but probably spent hours on it, their heels impossibly tall and dress shoes polished to a shine. It's so much effort just looking at them, nevermind having to actually _think _about putting in that kind of time. 

_Tryhards. _

Mom's attitude about money always seems more valid whenever I'm at things like this—she hated her parent's wealth, hated having to rely on it. She made sure we were comfortable—and I certainly always had substantially more than most—but Mom made sure I never coveted it. But I also never learned how to live without it. There was never any danger of me going hungry, being homeless, if I could pay my bills on time and get what I needed. It's only when I read the news or watch some asinine video online that I remember, and feel profoundly embarrassed, that I'm related to the richest man in the country, a guy who blows his money left and right. It might be funny if it wasn't also absolutely _infuriating. _

Perhaps that doesn't make me any better than them, either.

"You sure that thing's gonna work?" I ask Bruce, hands fidgeting with the seams of my dress as he pulls into the valet lane. 

“One way to find out,” he says, his eased and relaxed posture only belied by his wandering gaze, hard and scrutinizing, analyzing the faces swarming the cars and lining the path ahead. For something that was supposedly _last minute, _it looks like it took a month to pull together. 

_Guess that's what happens when you have enough money. _

Like Bruce, I'm also scanning the faces in the crowd, my stomach twisting at how many there are, how they all have cameras in their hands. I don't know how long I can keep my act together without drinking, without having _something _to calm my racing heart, but I can't have my mind be clouded here. Not just because I promised Bruce, but I need to be sharp. Naomi's text is still fresh in my head—she's glad I have a lead, but I don’t want to let her down—to screw up and have this whole thing go sideways. 

**Take nothing, but find a legal avenue for investigation. Meet me at City Hall for debriefing tomorrow. 1500. **

**And don’t do anything I wouldn’t.**

I still don't know exactly what that last part is supposed to mean; she's done _a lot _of shady work before_—_hell, she's even had me do a good chunk of it, so what’s the limit of ‘unacceptable’? 

_Guess that leaves room to improvise. _

"Ready?" Bruce asks when he puts his Lamborghini in park after it's our turn to pull up to the front entryway.

I'm already sweating, fabric sticking to my skin and scalp itching under the would-be penetrative gaze of the people clamouring to see who we are on the other side of the tinted glass. Alfred had the dress in the closet at the Manor—a full-length, soft pink satin with a twist at the front, the sleeves loose and long, only showing my skin at the slit going up the right side of my thigh and above my collarbone. It was by surprise that I noticed almost all the clothes Alfred bought were like that—even though the patterns themselves weren’t my style anymore, it was made up of loose-fitting tops, long sleeves and hardly anything that showed skin. It hurt that Alfred noticed, that he went out of his way to get it all for me anyway, and that all my efforts to hide only made me more visible. And, despite all of his careful effort and consideration, I still feel self-conscious, like the fabric is sheer enough that they'll all be able to see what's underneath. 

"Yeah," I croak, wincing as I clear my throat, "Yeah, let's get this over with. Sooner we find something, the better."

But Bruce doesn’t unlock the doors, only turning to stare at me insistently as I avoid eye contact. 

"We don't have to do this, Miri." He's trying one last time to change my mind, but I can't go back and leave this, even if it's like being dragged through broken glass. 

"Yes, we do." I smile weakly, still avoiding his gaze as I double-check my small clutch to make sure I have everything. I don't want to see him slip his other mask on, the one where I hardly recognize him. "C'mon. Don't let me down with that thing," I say, pointing to the small device in his hand that looks almost like a laser pointer. But I know better. 

He sighs and nods, popping his door open for the pandemonium to begin.

_"Mr. Wayne, Mr. Wayne!" _people shout as soon as his head appears outside the car, the paparazzi clamouring over one another for a better shot. _"Is it true you met with the Joker?" _they shout at me when I get out, too, swarming us with their cameras until they’re less than a foot away. The rapid flashing and shouts disorient me, footing uncertain as I block my face with one hand. My head swims, unable to tell which way is up, blood rushing in my ears, stomach lurching as vertigo tries to take me out at the knees. 

“Hey, what the hell?” someone says, and a chorus of expletives and disgruntled sentiments echo them as a hand goes to my elbow. I flinch back, white flashes still bursting across my vision as the dizziness makes my head feel too light. 

“Come on, Miri.” 

I’m relieved that it’s Bruce’s voice in my ear, and I let him lead me forward as my vision clears and I get my footing back. The people with the cameras aren’t aiming them for photos anymore—they’re shaking them, pressing various buttons to get them to turn on. Despite the resonating headache, I smirk. 

“Looks like your little emitter worked,” I say, shaking my head as the halos around the lights disappear and it doesn’t feel like I’m going to fall over. Lucius is still doing good work for Bruce, and the lead-lined clutch is the only reason my phone and the rest of my gear isn’t completely fried. 

_Well… it’s technically _also _Lucius’. _

“How long have you been experiencing symptoms like that?” he asks, false-smile firmly in place when we get to the security checkpoint. 

“Names?” the head valet asks before I can open my mouth. Hair gelled back, black vest and dress shirt bordering on silver, he’s not even looking at us. His head is bent down, checking the long guest list with a pen in his hand. Bruce chuckles under his breath. 

"Should be under _Wayne.” _

He sounds so smug that I want to smack him, but the way the head valet freezes and looks up slowly in surprise almost makes me see why Bruce enjoys acting like an ass in public.

His mouth open like a fish out of water, he stammers, “P-Pardon me, Mr. Wayne. Mr. Sionis has you on the VIP list. And you are Miriam Kane?” he asks me, his eyes carefully fixed on my face. 

_You already know the answer to that, buddy. _

I nod, hands clenched into fists and desperate to get inside and escape the people behind us. The sooner we can leave, the better. 

“Who knew Roman thought so highly of us, Miri,” Bruce says, laughing. Nodding at the man, he slips him a hundred-dollar bill along with his car keys like it’s normal to have a wad of those in your coat pocket. Taking his ticket and nudging me forward, the valet’s eyes follow us all the while. 

“What do you mean by ‘symptoms’?” I ask when we’re out of earshot, taking in the elaborate tile pillars in the lobby, the too-bright white marble reflecting all of the light in the room to blind us as we follow the stanchions to the ballroom. 

“From the concussion,” Bruce says. He’s eyeing the place up like I am, but he’s looking at exits and security guards, his head turning every once in a while to look over our shoulders. “Does it always get like that?” 

_Only when I get too drunk, usually. _

“Oh. _That_. Not always—just with bright flashes and loud noises… that sort of thing,” I say instead—there’s no need to fan his burning need to mother me. 

The concussion I got eighteen months ago was bad enough that I still feel the effects—mostly in the mornings before I get my bearings, when there’s unexpected sounds or too-bright lights—and the disorientation and headaches are enough to keep me in bed for an entire day when it gets bad enough. The look Bruce gives me says _you should see a doctor about that_, and I ignore it, pulling ahead and shrugging past the other milling guests and security standing at the exits with their coats barely covering their holstered Glocks. 

“So… what are you supposed to do at these things?” I ask under my breath as we get further into the hotel, walking down the long, white hall lined with macabre paintings acting as the only decoration, making mental note of where the main elevators and stairs are, which of the locked doors require security badges or keys.

Bruce huffs out a laugh, chagrin as he rolls his eyes. “It usually involves a lot of… what do you like calling it_—schmoozing? _That, and sussing out who has the bigger yacht and discussing all the _original _ways they think of spending their money.”

“So, you’re part of that category then?” I mutter. 

Bruce doesn’t answer, and any other snarky comment I have leaves my mind when we finally get to the ballroom. 

It’s a sensory overload in comparison to the rest of the stark interior, and it reminds me of the hotel Bruce bought a few months after he came back, but this is decidedly more ostentatious and gaudy. With all the style of the American brand of _nouveau riche—_the interior doesn’t match the gothic fixtures outside; instead, the large ballroom is decked out with bright metallic accents, the modern furniture warped and leather-clad, floors black marble with golden veins, and the walls are crimson and covered in an eclectic and colourful mix of Venetian masks—_larva, moretta, _and even a few _medico della peste _make up the decor between Renaissance paintings of the Italian Carnival. Something like classical music comes from a quartet in the far corner next to a large fountain, but it's off—almost like it's two different pieces playing at once, creating a discordant harmony that hurts my ears. Waiters roam with trays topped with small appetizers and champagne but, unlike the valets, they're wearing masks.

_The guy knows how to stick with an aesthetic, I guess. _

"We don't want to be here long," Bruce says, leaning in close as other guests pass us and unabashedly stare. “I'm going to find a way upstairs, and you're going to—” 

“Stay in a corner?" I hiss between my teeth, crossing my arms. "That’s _not _what we talked about—”

“Ah, the Waynes!”

I swallow my retorts, back going stiff at the sound of the voice. I've never heard it before, but it's overly jovial, and it reminds me of something the Joker said to me once. 

_'The Almost-Wayne—little Miriam Adina Kane.' _

Bruce is better at keeping up the facade. Smile in place, he greets the man behind us. “Roman. Nice to see you after, oh, what has it been, a year?” 

He's tall—hair brown, enough stubble on his jaw to look _handsomely rugged _while simultaneously communicating that he's never done a hard day's work in his life. His gray eyes are cold and hard, smile thin-lipped and insincere despite its width. I'm reminded of when I saw him on TV in the diner—how he's objectively handsome, and the same still holds true, but it's infinitely more hollow, like he's imitating human emotion rather than feeling it. I was wrong before—even when Bruce is pretending, he never looks like this. 

“We had a board meeting three months ago about creating a joint product line,” Roman says, face getting tight with the effort it's taking to remain pleasant. “Can’t expect someone as busy as you to remember everything I suppose, can we?” I don't miss the bite in there, the way his tongue flicks behind his closed teeth, just visible through the small gaps. When he finally turns his attention to me, my stomach drops. 

_Why does he remind me of Zsasz? _

“And this is…?” His eyes slide down my body, lingering on my skin. From the way he's staring, he knows who I am, too. 

_They all do. _

Something like contempt makes his smile twist into a sneer, and he snaps a finger when a waiter with champagne gets close. Air can't fill my lungs and the room shrinks. 

“Roman Sionis, this is Miriam Kane, my cousin.” Bruce's voice is hard in kind, body coiled and tense. 

Roman doesn't move to extend his hand, and I don't either, and he takes a flute for himself and nods for Bruce and me to do the same. He chuckles when Bruce takes one and I don’t. “Huh.” He looks at me again, and I don’t miss the way his eyes find a way back to my skin, how the corner of his mouth twitches, his gaze lowering to my chest. “I would’ve never guessed.” 

Something I recognize finally surfaces in his expression, and it makes my skin crawl as the party falls away as the world gets dark, air turning frigid cold and heavy with the smell of rust; hands ghost along my stomach, pushing my skirt past my thighs, starting soft only to press hard enough to bruise. 

_That’s not real—it’s not real— _

"I was expecting the Joker's, heh, _little helper _to have more meat on her bones," he says, like it’s a casual comment he’s making and not a pointed barb. Bruce stiffens, and I grab his arm before he does anything I’m already thinking about. The image of the ship falls away and all I can think about is what it would be like to break that champagne glass against his face. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll see you both again shortly, I'm sure. Charmed to meet you, Miriam,” he says before I find it in me to say something smart, fuming at how he said my name. 

_What is it with the amount of sociopathic bastards in this town, and why do I have to meet so many of them?_

“Oh, and Bruce,” Roman calls over his shoulder after downing his flute, smiling genuinely for the first time and making my cold blood burn, “try not to set anything on fire, will you?” 

Bruce raises his glass and for once I’m proud of his ability to say _fuck you _with just a grin. “No promises. I have a name to live up to.” 

Roman’s grin disappears when Bruce winks, and I all but cackle. 

“What a _fucking _douche,” I say, not bothering to be quiet and ignoring the way the woman two feet away gasps like I personally called her grandmother a harpy. “It’s true!” I giggle when Bruce chokes on his champagne, descending into a fit of laughter that I have to hide behind my hand as he chokes. “I should’ve tripped him or something. Asshole.” 

He snorts again and raises a brow, glancing around before his eyes follow Roman as he moves deeper into the room, laughing loudly as he greets the others. 

"What?" I ask when he doesn't say anything and places his half-full glass on a passing tray. Turning to see what's caught his attention, panic hits me for a whole other reason. “Bruce, you didn’t tell me Lucius would be here.”

He's standing further back in the ballroom, speaking with a short, older man with a head of silver hair, grinning until he catches a glance of us. Smile disappearing, he gives a small wave before returning to his conversation. My relief is only matched by my incredulous anger. 

“I wasn’t sure if he’d come,” he says, walking in front of me to block my view of the rest of the ballroom. My arms shake with pent-up energy, the desire to hit something—or _someone—_more powerful than ever, and my skin feels like it's been dipped in bleach, itching under the weight of everyone's gaze. “You need to stay _calm, _Miri—” 

“Don’t be condescending, Bruce," I snap, wincing when it leaves my mouth. My dress feels too tight, my chest too heavy. 

_He's right. Take a breath. _

"I’ll be fine." His gaze is steady, considering me as he makes the room feel smaller, like it's just us. "You know these idiots better than I do, and… Please, let me do this. It’s less suspicious if a girl gets lost than a dude just wandering around—”

_“‘Dude’?” _

“—and you’re better at distractions anyway, right? Isn’t what all that _ninja _training was for, or something?” I finish, dizziness returning as Bruce gives me a look that I haven't seen in a long time—but I can't tell if it's because he's impressed or surprised.

“...Not quite.”

It's only because he's smiling that I let him lead me to the far side of the room, wading through the small packs of people huddled around the tall tables, already drunk despite it being just past nine.

“You still have that device I gave you?” He doesn't look like a _Wayne_ anymore. Bruce looks like he did when we were on the ship before it sunk, when he asked me to trust him. 

“Yeah.” 

He nods. “You press—”

“—Press it if I’m in trouble, I know. There’s no one waving needles and M16s around here, I think we should be fine.” I try to smile, but he's still being serious, still trying to decide how far he'll let this go. "Do you trust me?" 

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and I’m expecting him to say no, that I’ve done enough.

_Haven't you, Miri? _

“Twenty minutes." I lift my head, half-thinking that I heard him wrong, but he's looking at his watch, winding a knob on the side as a muscle in his jaw jumps. "If you're not back twenty minutes from now and you haven't pressed _that," _he points to my clutch, where I put the device he gave me before I went to Arkham, "then I'm pulling the fire alarm and we're getting out." 

I want to hug him like I used to before he left, wanting to bask in that feeling of camaraderie like this is a lighthearted scheme that he'd come up with when I was young, creating a new adventure that won't go wrong. 

But I don't, only giving his arm an awkward squeeze and nodding as I leave the ballroom behind, racking my brain to think of something to get myself upstairs. Roman lives in the penthouse, much like we did, and that means he probably has a laptop—one that should be hooked up to his company network. Even if it isn't, it'll have enough passwords and cached information that I'll be able to get into it from my terminal. 

_Think, think, think..._

Bruce and I had talked about distracting security and sneaking past to the access elevator. I have all the tech in my bag to do the rest. 

When I'm clear of the ballroom, the loud music and indecipherable conversations muddled with giddy laughter behind me, I go the opposite way from where we came. I was right—it'll be easier to for me to feign ignorance than it would've been for him, but the key to that is being _convincing, _and doing it on the phone is one thing, in person is another. 

A door opens behind me. I look over my shoulder but keep moving forward, quickening my pace, only to run into something warm and solid. Something grips my arms and pulls me up, keeping me from falling when I trip. Reacting on instinct, I drive my heel into their foot, twist my arms out of their grip as I draw back my arm—it's only Zsasz' face I see—his and everyone else who hurt me. But they won't. _They won't. _

_"Jesus fucking Christ—"_

I hesitate long enough for the man to jerk himself away, his breathing heavy as he straightens his glasses. 

_Jack Ryder._

"What are you _doing?" _I hiss, hand still drawn back like I'm ready to punch him in the face. 

"You're a danger to society, you goddamn Amazon," he says, straightening his tie and shaking out the hand that I twisted. "And I could ask _you _the same. What are you up to now? Did your boyfriend put you up to this?" 

For a moment, I think he's making a sick insinuation about Bruce, but then it hits me. 

_Bonnie and _fucking _Clyde._

_"Boyfriend,"_ I repeat, voice turning dark. He swallows and takes a step back. "You—you're talking about the man who nearly _killed _me, who let another almost _rape me, _who _murdered _my best friend, and you—you're calling him my _boyfriend." _

I laugh and it sounds _mad, _like I'm on the edge of really losing it. Any grasp I had on _certainties _and keeping my shit together flies out the window, and all the fucked up fantasies I've had over the last week about caving his head in come to life before my eyes. It's like he can sense it. He takes a step back. 

"Is _that _what you're saying happened?" He forces out a laugh and I bare my teeth like a rabid dog. "One would think you'd be more willing to testify then, huh? But no, you've been _hiding."_ I freeze, and he takes it as permission—like he's found a soft spot he can dig his teeth into. He laughs again, giving it more bite. "Hell, you've even been visiting the man! How long has that been going on, Miriam? They allowing _conjugal _visits for you two?—"

I really snap this time, and I don't bother holding back. 

Bringing one knee up, I hit him in the balls. The air leaves his lungs in a _whoosh, _dropping to his knees as he cradles himself, tears springing to his eyes. He's trying to wheeze out an insult, but I clock him as hard as I can, hitting him square in the jaw as his head cracks to the side and he falls over, knocked out cold. 

"I warned you, didn't I, Jack?" I say, towering over him and shoving aside the memories of what it was like to be in his position, revelling in how he’s on the floor and I’m not. "Too bad you didn't learn." 

"Miss?" 

_Oh, fucking hell—_

I blew it. God-_fucking-_damnit, I blew it. 

"Are you alright?" 

_Fuck, what am I going to do? _

It's a security guard jogging up to stand beside me, looking between my face and Ryder sprawled out on the floor groaning. He's a bigger man, at least a foot taller, broad-shouldered and dressed in a suit. "Miss, you mind telling me what's going on?" 

Before I can open my mouth, an unexpected burst of tears shakes me. I don't know where it came from or why I can't seem to stop, but I bury my face in my hands and lean into it. 

"Did—did he try to hurt you?" he asks, resting a tentative hand on my shoulder. 

Not trusting myself to look at him without bursting into a fit of unhinged laughter, I nod and try my best to sound convincing. "I—I was try—trying to find the bathroom, and he followed me out and—" 

A laugh almost breaks through and I make myself shut up and hoping it sounds closer to a sob, thanking whatever cruel deity that's out there that Ryder is too incoherent to say anything. The guard's hand drops from the gun at his hip and pulls out a radio instead.

"I have a Code Yellow in the far east hallway outside the ballroom. You copy, Paulie?" 

The radio crackles for a moment before a tinny voice comes through the static. _"Yeah, I copy. Just finishing something then I'm headed your way." _

"Meet me in the office, I'll bring 'em both there." The guard sighs, rubbing his head before kneeling down and rolling Jack over to put his hands into a pair of zip ties that he pulls from his pockets. "I'll need you to come back with me, Miss, just until we get some of this sorted out."

_Brilliant. What now, Miri?_

I need a copy of one of their badges anyway. My cellphone is hooked up to an RFID scanner, I just need to turn it on. It'll clone it and then all I'll need to do is tap it against the card-readers, and if they take me to the security office, that kills two birds with one stone. I won't need to loop the feeds through my phone when I can do it there directly. 

_A lot riding on you not fucking this up._

"It won't take long will it?" I sniffle, playing up the hiccups and hoping it's not completely transparent. But the guy seems to lap it up and eager to prove me right—there's a lot about this that's easier because I'm a woman. "My—my friends are waiting for me and I still need to... you know..." I trail off, dabbing at my eyes like I'm worried about my makeup and hoping I look delicate or whatever it is concerned men look for in these situations. 

"Oh, right—yes, of course, Miss," he says, hooking his hands under a dazed Ryder’s armpits, hauling him up to drag him with us. "We'll just make sure you're alright and get some minor details. Won't take longer than a few minutes. Promise."

He smiles and I give a hesitant one in return, following at a distance as we go further down the direction I was originally heading. Before we round a corner, he scans his card on a reader to our left, opening a door and grunting as he drags Ryder in after him. Looking in the room before entering, I see I was right—he did take me to the security room. Or, at least, a small off-shoot from it. There's a chair in front of two large monitors showing twelve camera feeds at a time before rotating to the next set and, left unguarded, is the computer tower. 

The man nods to a plastic chair, grunting as he props the barely conscious Ryder against the wall. Reaching into my clutch, I turn on the scanner. All that’s left is to get into range. 

_Think fast, Miri—they can't be here if you’re going to get on that computer._

"You're….you're not going to make me wait with him, are you?" I ask, making my eyes big as I stand beside the guard, making sure it’s on the side where his badge is hanging from. I hold my bag low, hoping it’s enough. 

"Oh, no—of course not, Miss." The guy seems to forget that _I _was the one who laid out Ryder in the first place, but he blanches, almost dropping Ryder as he straightens, his face flushed. He mistakes my panic for fear as Ryder starts to groan, eyes fluttering as he comes to. "Nothing to worry about. You just, um… wait here and I won't be any longer than a few minutes." 

_That means you have less than five. Jesus, you have the worst luck. _

"Thank you, I really appreciate it," I say, making my smile a little wider as I sit where he motioned to earlier, hands clasped in my lap as I try to look small and desperately hoping it works. 

He smiles and takes Ryder to an adjoining room, grunting with the effort of hauling him, and as soon as the door's closed I'm out of the chair. Pulling the same USB out of my clutch that I need to use at Arkham out of my bag, I plug it into the terminal, listening hard for any sounds of movement coming my way as the program downloads. Once it’s at sixty-percent, I check my phone, looking through the hexadecimal codes and seeing the line I need. When I look up, the program’s only at seventy. 

_C'mon, c'mon, c'mon… _

The program is a version of a prototype that I developed with Lucius—it’s a worm that infiltrates a host’s system, embedding itself in its root access functions and giving me control. It means I can install a keylogger so that I know all their passwords, allow me to harvest files and manipulate their programs—and a lot of those things I can do from my phone. 

_“No—what are you _talking _about?!” _

That’s Ryder’s voice—he’s awake. 

_Hurry up, Miri— _

_“That bitch is _nuts—”

Ryder’s voice rises with the security guard’s, and my stomach twists and heart pounds. I’m running out of time. 

_Ninety-four, ninety-five… _

As soon as the bar reaches one hundred, I hit ‘finish’ and all but sprint from the room, tucking the USB back in my bag as I round the corner. Shutting down the entire security grid with my phone, I see the lone elevator by what looks like a service door entrance. This one requires a security card, and I pull out my phone, bringing up the program that should get me inside. 

_You’re screwed if this doesn’t work. _

Holding my breath, I hold it to the card reader. When it goes green, I all but yell in excitement. 

“Top floor, gotta head to the top floor,” I mutter under my breath, hitting the penthouse button and scanning my phone again. The adrenaline makes my skin clammy, dress sticking to my back as I push away the loose strands of my hair, wiping away the sweat on my brow. “You can do this, Miri.” 

It feels like a long ride to the top, but it can’t be longer than a minute. I don’t have a plan for this far, only having the consolation that at least everyone will be downstairs. 

_Find his laptop, download the program, and take the stairs down. That’s all you’ve got to do. You can do it, just breathe… keep breathing. _

When the doors open, it eerily reminds me of the penthouse Bruce, Alfred, and I lived in after the Manor burned down. It has the same stretch of hallway leading to the front door, but the decor is different. More black marble with the gold veins like in the ballroom contrast with white walls, and there are more masks up here, but they aren’t Venetian. These ones are tribal—collections from various indigenous tribes and put on display. There are no paintings up here, the wall of empty eyes and cut wood and painted stone following me as I walk forward, my footsteps loud as I creep forward. It’s not the masks themselves that are unsettling, but how they’re arranged—how so many of them don’t have any mouths, their gazes unseeing and aimed right at eye level. 

_If he is Black Mask, he’s really making the dots big and close together, isn’t he? _

The door leading into the penthouse isn’t locked, and the hair rises on my arms when I go inside. It’s pitch black, only a few lowlights from far corners of the room and the Gotham skyline give shape to the furniture. Everything in me is screaming to leave, but I keep taking deep breaths, closing my eyes for a moment to adjust to the darkness. 

_Breathe—just keep breathing. _

My pulse is jumping against my skin, feet heavy and lungs burning when I breathe too deeply, I make myself move forward. The sooner I do this, the better. 

_You don’t have much time left—keep moving. _

Going right on instinct, it takes me down a short hall flanked with wide doorways_. _Wandering around in the dark is too much like my time in the Mayor’s house, but I shove the memories aside. Joker isn’t waiting for me here. There won’t be a TV showing my worst nightmares come to life. My head is clear and my body is mine and _I can do this. _

_That’s right—keep thinking that. Stay positive… _

I still almost scream when I see the outline of a person in the dark, stationary and all spidery limbs stretched out unnaturally from its body. I feel like a rabbit trapped in a cage with a fox, my heart beating so fast that I’m sure it’s going to stop. 

_Breathe, breathe— _

But it doesn’t move and I don’t make a sound. Keeping back a whimper, I move closer, seeing that it’s a statue fixed in front of the windows of the master bedroom. Grotesquely misshapen, it’s in the form of a naked woman, her limbs twisted and neck looped around on themselves until it looks like a tightly coiled spring, stomach shrunken in and her thighs wide and shapely. She’s cut out of what looks like marble, only her pupils and nipples painted black. Her eyes are wide, almost terror-stricken, but she’s wearing an obsidian moretta mask. It’s… like she’s screaming, the mask silencing her permanently. 

_Who keeps one of these in their bedroom? _

Tearing my eyes away from the statue, bile burning the back of my throat, I find what I’m looking for: On a small desk lies a laptop, a small blue light blinking on its side. There’s no one in the bed, and I still don’t hear anything besides the distant hiss of an air conditioner. Hands shaking, I pull out the USB again, plugging it in as I open the lid. 

“Please, go fast, go fast…” The worm works quickly, bypassing the login to the home screen, but it’s slower than it was downstairs, and I keep back a panicked whimper. The sense of urgency is greater here, the dread stifling. 

_Just breathe, you still have a few minutes, just keep breathing… _

It’s like the universe keeps setting up jokes at my expense. Once the worm finishes installing, a groan echoes through the penthouse. It’s quiet at first, the creaking. Weight shifts, shoes tap against cold stone, crisp and sharp. The air shifts as it carries voices from the entryway. 

“Set up a meeting with him—I wanna see that quack by the end of the week.”

There’s no time—pulling out the USB and searching the room, there are no closets to hide in. Only the statue might provide some shelter, but it’s right by the doorway. 

A light turns on, and I hear a second voice—a woman’s. “Roman, no, that’s not a—”

The only place I can try is the bed. 

“I didn’t _ask _if you fucking thought it was a good idea or not, Brenda.”

Pulling my legs under just in time, they walk into the bedroom, his footsteps heavy as the woman—Brenda?—follows behind. I throw a hand over my mouth, both to keep myself quiet and to control my breathing. 

Glass clinking together and liquid pours, Roman snarls, sounding more like an animal than a man. “When I tell you to do something, you _do it. _Or are you _that _wet for me to teach you somethin’ else?” 

The woman stills, her shadow stopping at the edge of the bed. His words make my stomach hurt—it’s too close to something Zsasz would have said. A bloody vision of my body ending up like the statue’s—twisted and mangled and no one able to hear me—racks me and I struggle to think, to stay calm. 

“That’s what I thought,” he says when the woman stays silent. I press my hand against my mouth harder when he sits on the mattress, making it sink and press into my stomach. It’s hard to breathe—the pressure directly over my ribs as he shifts, and I bite my tongue hard enough to make it bleed. “Call that fucking shrink and arrange something. Strange owes us, and he’d better be ready to deliver. _Soon.” _

_Wait—_wait. _Did… did he say ‘Strange’? _

Why the hell would Strange owe him anything? What the hell kind of use would a man like Roman have of Arkham unless— 

“Were you on my laptop?” he asks, rising and letting me breathe again. 

“No, I don’t touch your shit, Roman.” 

_Oh no… oh no— _

“Huh.” I hear him click it closed, the shadow of his feet staying at the foot of the bed. “Are Wayne and that dumb cunt still downstairs?” 

My face burns, terror sitting on my chest like Roman never got off the bed.

“Last time I checked.” 

“Call Paulie and make sure. Confirm that their car’s all… _haha.” _He breaks off laughing. It’s crueller, more malignant than I ever heard come from the Joker, heavy and spiteful. “That it’s all _fixed up. _Wouldn’t want them getting home in one piece, would we?”

My body shakes, and it’s with every ounce of willpower I have that I keep myself still. 

“No,” the woman says, sounding bored, “I guess we wouldn’t.” 

“Find me when it’s done. There’s a few more bitches that need to kiss the ring.”

When they turn off the lights and I hear the door click, I wait another five minutes before I think about moving. My body’s stiff and dress covered in dust, but I make sure I have everything before making a run for it. 

_You need to call Bruce—find the stairs. _

Nearly tripping on one of his rugs, I make it to the door and barely have the space of mind to close it behind me. The stairs are to the right of the elevator, and I take them two at a time, hiking up my dress to my knees and all but sprinting down as I speed dial Bruce. 

_“Pick up, pick up—”_

But it goes to voicemail. 

Cursing, I go faster, glad for all that time spent at the gym. It’s dizzying going ‘round and ‘round, but I keep going until it feels like my knees will give out, my muscles shaking and weak, and I push beyond my body's limits, ignoring how they scream at me. 

_Faster, Miri— _

Chest heaving when I reach the bottom, I barely give myself time to catch my breath before I run out into the hallway. I have to find Bruce before he comes looking for me, or before he gets into his car. I’m rounding the corner, but my legs finally betray me and I trip, my dress ripping as I barely catch myself and lean against a wall.

“No, no—c’mon, you can’t stop—c’mon, Miri—”

Gritting my teeth, I right myself only to come face-to-face with one of the ghastly paintings Roman chose to line the hallway with. Almost falling back down, I make my feet steady themselves, blinking away the vertigo that makes my head light. Unlike the other art and the statue upstairs, I recognize this one. 

It’s a supine woman in a white dress, the background dark, hiding the shape of a blank-eyed horse, the edges of its head and muzzle barely visible, and, sitting on the woman’s chest, is a demon. Eyes boring into mine, it’s an image that’s not just familiar because I know a little bit about art history. 

_You need to find Bruce... think about it later, you need to find him. _

Backing away slowly like it might spring at me, my spine presses against something warm. 

“See something you like?” 

A hand slaps over my mouth when I try to scream, holding me in place before I can twist away—but I can see who it is. 

_Roman. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for being so patient, and please know that I appreciate all of you and the time you take to read and leave comments. It really helps keep me going and I hope I'm not letting you down... but (hopefully) I'll be back again in a couple of weeks :') 💖
> 
> A few notes - yes, I know that Santa Prisca is the prison where Bane became the supercriminal that he is in the comics. But, since I'm not going with that origin since this is the Nolanverse, I thought it would be a nice easter egg to incorporate since Santa Prisca is a hotbed of corruption, brutality, and villainy - what better place than that for Roman to live, no? And, yes, I mention Lex Luthor! He's not making an appearance in this story, but I'm branching out a little to the larger DCU. At least, the parts that can be included and remain grounded in Nolan's clear boundaries of "realism" as opposed to the fantastical. So you might be seeing more references here and there :). 
> 
> And the painting Miri is looking at here at the end is Henry Fuseli's “The Nightmare,” painted in 1781. I thought it seemed fitting, since nightmares and fear are a central focus in the story. :') 
> 
> Keep staying safe, everyone. You're all in my thoughts!


	19. Vanishing Grace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry that this is late again guys 😭. I love all of you deeply and I hope you enjoy the chapter!

“See something you like?” 

Roman's smiling, and I react on instinct, that primal need to survive, to stop what I know will likely come next. I refuse to live through that, transfixed as terror rages through my veins. 

_Never again. _

Driving my elbow back, I hit him in the ribs. He wheezes, doubling over and giving me enough leverage to put some distance between us. My muscles shake from going down all those stairs and the high of getting ready for a fight, my breathing heavy as I press my back against the wall. He’s holding his chest and coughing, but he’s still smiling. 

“What the hell is _wrong _with you?” 

I’m ready to hit him—I don’t care who he is. Everything he said upstairs is fresh in my head: the sick insinuations and the way he spoke to that woman, the knowledge that he did something to Bruce’s car, and that he has something on the side with Strange. All it does is fuel the napalm burning through me until I’m ready to breathe fire. 

_Stay calm—he wouldn’t have rigged Bruce’s car if he was planning something else. Use your head. _

Roman isn’t angry—he’s amused, holding out his hands in a placative gesture as he straightens, the corner of his lips twitching and a laugh on the tip of his tongue. “No need for so much _hostility_, darlin’. I know there’s that whole saying about curiosity _killing_ the cat, but…” 

I tighten my hands into fists as if it'll banish the memory rising like bile, the echo of _his_ voice in my head. 

But it doesn't.

_'Cat. Mir-_cat.' 

He closes the distance between us, walking slowly with his hands still raised while angling himself so that I can’t run past to get around the corner, only stopping when he's a foot away. He looks to me expectantly, like he thought I’d finish the saying, but he seems just as pleased with my silence, as if this is a typical party game for him. 

_He might not suspect anything, even if he does already have it out for you. Stay calm, Miri. Attacking him won’t get you anywhere. _

“Satisfaction brings it back, no?” He stares at my neck, mouth curling further into a grin some might think charming.

_Yeah. If they've been knocked on the head one too many times. _

I hold my ground, standing straighter so that my height is equal with his. "I don't know what that has to do with manhandling your guests, but it's certainly unbecoming of a host." His smile shrinks and I take it as a victory, my head high as I summon what’s left of my tattered sense of dignity and brush past him, adjusting my dress to hide the widening split that exposes my thigh. 

But turning my back on him was a mistake—he wraps a hand around my bicep, spinning me around to face the disturbing painting again. "Oh, but you haven't answered my question." 

Before I can wrench my arm away, he releases me, draping his over my shoulder to sidle closer. I breathe through my nose, eyeing up his position and running through which moves will take him down the hardest if I move quick enough. Just having his body touching mine has my skin vibrating like it intends to separate itself from the muscle. 

_‘When I tell you to do something, you _do it._ Or are you _that _wet for me to teach you somethin’ else?’_

From the way the woman reacted, he wasn’t referring to something good. I’ve learned to recognize the threat of degradation, and I was right—the man _is _a creep. A dangerous and powerful one. And he’s trying to scare me. 

_Then don’t let him. You’ve lived through worse—stay calm, breathe. _

Even if it’s true, it doesn’t stop the way my stomach twists, how my scalp is damp with sweat. 

"Do you like it?" he asks, pointing to the painting. "I have it on loan from the Detroit Institute of Arts. There's just… _something_ about it that draws the eye." 

Showing fear to men like Roman is like signing your own death warrant—a painful lesson I learned in Amusement Mile. I keep standing tall, quelling the tremor starting in my hand and infecting my body, imagining that I am wearing that moretta mask after all. It might keep me from speaking the way I want, but it’ll also hide what’s underneath.

"That's one way to put it," I say, my eyes fixed on the woman’s face, her slightly parted lips and her eyes shut in helpless slumber. 

He laughs, jostling me as he squeezes my shoulder, making a point of ignoring how I stiffen. "There's just something so—so _satisfying _about it. The infatuation, the _obsession, _the dark corners of the mind becoming real. It's…" he looks to me as if he's still expecting to find an enthusiastic participant in this odd conversation, but the smile is entirely gone, and his gray eyes are shards of steel waiting to cut and tear, "almost _erotic, _isn't it?" 

He stares at the painting again, at the prone woman splayed out and defenseless, dress almost opened enough to expose her breasts. Coupled with the demons and darkness surrounding her, I only see an image that mirrors too many of my own life experiences. Is that what it is to him, something to be consumed, gotten off to and nothing more? 

"I don't know much about art," I finally say, clearing my throat and failing to keep out the revulsion. 

He chuckles. "You'd think someone like you would've been taught more of the classics. Learned some refinement." 

He takes his arm away to lean against the wall, blocking me from heading back to the ballroom. There are maintenance doors behind me, but going somewhere even more secluded is a last resort. 

"Is it your mother or your father that you get your exotic looks from? I can't for the life of me remember." 

Any thought about how to run past him and find Bruce leaves me. I’m imagining what it would be like to see his fancy suit stained red, how it would feel to coat my fingers with his blood after hitting him again and _again, _until he swallows on his own tongue, chokes on the words _people like you _and fucking _exotic. _

The only thing holding me back is the faint reminder that I need to control the impulses, that I can’t let them hold total sway over me. 

_How long can you keep that up? _

"Is that it? You wanted to lob some thinly-veiled and petty insults because your _friends _are so dull that this is how you alleviate the boredom?" I’m deadpan, but I’ve never been good at hiding how I feel and, from the mirth in his expression, he can see it for himself. 

“Why are you all the way over here and not with Bruce?” 

This is a game—one I’m not very good at. I need to toe the line, outsmart him before I terribly miscalculate and end up dead. It wouldn’t be hard for him to do it here—it’s his hotel, I’ve already tampered with the cameras, and something tells me that there aren’t very many people that would care if I went missing. Bruce has money and influence, but having me in the family—and him cementing the image of a man who spends with reckless flagrancy and lives like a debauched lunatic—put the Wayne name in a place of ridicule and dismissal. The only consolation I have is that Roman’s planning on seriously maiming—maybe even killing—Bruce and me in a car crash. 

"I didn't read anything on the invitation about it being against the rules to go for a walk. There’s been a distinct lack of signage." 

"Oh, but you were gone for over twenty minutes. Bruce was worried," he simpers. 

My eyes narrow, mouth forming into a grimace. Roman’s not so good at hiding his feelings either. 

_He’s not trying to. _

"He'll live." I mirror his casual posture and examine my nails like I actually care what they look like, hoping he doesn’t see the slight shake. "Hate to be the one to break it to you, but your party’s pretty stuffy." 

"It’s the kind my parents _loved _throwing. Guess it rubbed off.” He turns bitter for a moment, his expression that of a spoiled child pouting until he laughs, holding his side where I elbowed him, but this time he sounds genuinely mirthful. There’s something vicious about it, a hidden violence that he’s waiting to let loose. “And what kind of parties do _you _like going to? One's a little more _dangerous _than this? Or, is it the absence of a few… _certain _individuals that make it so dull?" 

Any illusion that I was trying to maintain falls to the wayside. 

_‘I didn't _lie_, Miri! I'm no-_t_ leaving you, and you just, ah… _can't _get rid of me!’ _

The hall darkens, lights dimming and air turning cold. Fingers that I _know _aren’t there curl around my throat, tightening with every short breath, skin splitting and all semblance of warmth draining from gashes that have long since closed. 

_Leave. Now. _

"Move," I hiss, sidestepping around him only for Roman to block my path again. He stands straighter, squaring his shoulders. It was easy to dismiss before because of the sleek suit, but he has more muscle mass than I do. Even if we are the same height and I’ve had more training, the damage he could do if he wanted makes my throat tight. 

"Why would I do a thing like that?" he asks, voice low as he herds me back toward the painting. "You know, I got an interesting call from security. One of my guest’s nose was broken." He taps a finger against his chin, contemplating something before holding my gaze, the corner of his lip twitching as he tries to keep himself from smiling when my skin turns ashen. "He's blaming _you. _Now, why would that be?" 

_Oh, fucking hell. _

I didn’t have time to mess with the feeds, to retroactively erase what I did to Ryder. Roman knows. Either the guard told him or he saw it for himself. 

"Are you planning on having me arrested?" I try to hold my ground, but he keeps coming closer, making me bump into the wall when I try to keep our chests from touching. 

He smirks, cocking his head to the side. “Nah. That’s a hassle we don’t need, right?”

There’s a catch. There always is with people like him. But, instead of fear, white hot rage replaces my blood, giving my anger the intensity of a burning sun, alive and ready to incinerate. 

I don’t stem them this time—the thoughts on the best ways to make him hurt. Hitting Ryder was a carnal thrill, a violent reclamation of what had been stolen from me. Something tells me that doing the same to Roman would give a similar high. It builds until I can barely grasp it, a storm brewing into a typhoon. 

Roman chuckles through his nose, still trying to maintain the impression of a suave gentleman rather than a slimy eel in an overpriced suit. “I’ll let it slide, but in exchange…” He looks at me up and down, eyes lingering on my exposed thigh. But I don’t see desire. Not even attraction. It’s the rush of a cat toying with a mouse, enamoured with the action of watching it squirm before the kill rather than being driven by hunger. “I want to see them.” 

But he doesn’t realize that I’m no mouse. 

"See what?"

A muscle twitches in his jaw, and I’m surprised to see a sick fascination in his eyes. "Rumour going around town is that the Joker left you some… _mementos_ to remember him by." 

All too suddenly, I understand what he means.

There’s nowhere to back up, nowhere to escape the feeling of a knife being pressed against my chest, _his _voice and the cold and the inability to move, to think, to breathe. 

"So, how about it, sugar?" Ice forms under my skin when a finger touches my thigh, drawing up from above my knee, where the slit widened when I tripped, to land on one of the many scars that Joker left. It takes everything I have not to heave. "Or, is _brown _sugar a more fitting term—" 

Roman might have more muscle than me, but he’s never been in a fight, not a real one—men like him don’t know what it’s like to be afraid. He’s unaccustomed to pain, and I’m all too eager to acquaint him with what I feel every day. 

And I have the element of surprise. 

Gripping his wrist and twisting, I wrench it until I hear it crack and, even then, I don’t let go when Roman’s face screws up in pain, barely muffling a yell as he tries to relieve the pressure. I want to go further. I want to twist it until it looks like the arms of the statue in his bedroom, until he’s on the ground so that I can beat him bloody, pour out every feeling of malice as my already bruised knuckles break. 

_You can’t be like them, Miri. _

"Don't you _ever _touch me again," I snarl, releasing his arm with a shove and slipping past him before he can right himself and pay me back for almost breaking his wrist. 

Ignoring his curses and fowl threats, I barely hold onto the objective of finding Bruce, calming my boiling blood and the surging violence that makes my muscles spasm. I need a drink, pills, _something _to make it go away, to push it back down until it can’t choke me anymore, constrict my vision, so that I can calm the throbbing behind my eyes, burn the unspoken threats from my tongue. This is too much like it was all those years ago when I confronted Ivan, when I made a reckless choice that altered the entire trajectory of my life, when I ended Parker’s. 

_No, you can’t think about him here. Not here. _

Out of the consuming hate comes a swell of enveloping emptiness, silencing everything except for the ringing in my ears, cancelling out the world and disconnecting me from it. I welcome it for a fragile moment—I need to be numb, for the pain and hate and rage to be quiet for just a few minutes. 

“Miss Kane?” 

It sounds like it’s coming from three different directions all at once, each a different pitch creating a dizzying dance my head can’t keep up with. 

_It’s not real—try to think, _focus. 

When I blink hard, willing my mind to clear, Lucius materializes in front of me. His brows screw up in concern as his eyes flit from me back down the hall, the sounds from the hotel, the muted conversations audible through the walls, faded music bleeds out from behind him as reality returns, and the invasive memories creep back into the shadows of my mind. 

Seeing Lucius smothers any of the fire left, submerging me instead in the icy waters of guilt, of knowing just how badly I let him down, how I couldn’t work up the courage to apologize to his face. I haven’t seen him since that day of hell at Wayne Enterprises, and I still don’t know what to tell him, how to say just how sorry I am. 

_Don’t think about it right now—you need to find Bruce. _

My empty stomach cinches tight, tongue thick in my mouth. Smoke fills my lungs, heavy and acrid, my body going cold as I was _so close _to release, for all of this to be done, my throat being crushed as _he _did his best to end it—end me. The urge to laugh bubbles up like bile. I swallow it, but it doesn’t die—it expands in my chest, seeking escape even if it means ripping me open. 

“Are you alright?” 

I squeeze my eyes shut before opening them and blinking rapidly, forcing myself to focus on the concrete—how the hardwood floors feel under my flats, how my skin is raised from the cool air, the smell of food and too much wine, expensive cologne and stifling perfume. I force the present to come back in, to remember where I am and what I’m doing, who I’m talking to. 

_It’s someone else you failed._

“Yeah—yeah, I’m fine,” I say, backing up and almost tripping when he comes forward to steady me. “Have you seen Bruce?” 

Lucius lets out a long breath, shaking his head slightly. “We were looking for _you.” _He doesn’t say what he’s really thinking either, and I’m glad for it, even if it is a different kind of pain. He glances over his shoulder, half grinning, “But it seems like we didn’t have to search for long.” 

When I look past Lucius, I see that it’s Bruce who’s heading our way. And he’s fuming. 

_Perfect. Just perfect. _

He’s got that look on his face, the one I’ve come to associate with Batman—where his head’s bent forward and his fists are curled at his sides, shoulders tense with purpose and his mouth in a tight, grim line. I try to nonchalantly hide the rip in my dress with my clutch, God knows that he’s already going to lose it later, and I keep my posture relaxed, even if I feel wound up like a too-tight spring. 

He nods to Lucius and all but glares at me, and it’s when he’s close that I see his regret, how he wishes now that he never agreed to let me come in the first place. 

“Come on, we’re leaving,” he says, moving to put an arm around my shoulders before I duck away from him, my skin still crawling from Roman’s touch. 

“Probably for the best,” I say, taking the initiative to start heading for the exit and letting Bruce and Lucius follow behind. “What happened to the whole fire alarm solution of yours?” I’m trying to sound glib, like I didn’t just sprain Roman’s wrist or listen in on a conversation and make off with a hoard of stolen data that he’d, more than likely, kill me for. Bruce’s eyes narrow when he catches up, keeping pace with me as I avoid eye contact.

I’m hyper-aware of the paintings around us, how they focus on the bloody and the macabre, and they take on sick, new meanings when I think about the case being built around Black Mask. If Roman is moonlighting as a crime lord, he isn’t worried about subtlety. 

_Which begs the question as to why they haven’t been linked before. _

I’d like to chalk it up to police corruption and incompetence, there’s only so much that Gordon can do, but it has to be more than that. The files on the memory stick in my clutch can shed some light, but I need to do it without Bruce hovering over my shoulder. I still have to think about what I tell Naomi, what information I can give her that she can pursue without poisoning the whole case —not that she hasn’t bent or worked around the law herself, and I’m usually the one doing the dirty work for her. 

“I decided to go with something more subtle,” Bruce says, earning a laugh from Lucius. “I went looking first, and the security room seemed like a good first step,” the tone of mirth disappears when I glance at him out of the corner of my eye; he looks like a disapproving parent, “and then I ran into Jack Ryder. He’s angry, and he had a broken nose.” 

_So much for avoiding your fuck-ups until later… _

“He deserved a lot more than that,” I mumble, ignoring how Bruce glares. “Did he give you an earful about how he’s going to have me finally shipped off to prison?” 

I’m surprised when Lucius laughs and the gloom breaks when Bruce smirks for a brief second. “Yes. And he’d have a shot at it if I hadn’t fried the hotel’s security servers.” 

“You did _what?” _

_So much for having an in with their systems. _

Bruce urges me forward, paying extra mind to the catering staff passing by and the pockets of guests drinking in the alcoves along the hall. “The EMP emitter that I used for the cameras came in handy.” 

“Glad to hear it,” Lucius pipes in, looking _way _too entertained. 

_That’s because you haven’t told them that they need to be worried. _

When we come to the lobby, it’s only when Bruce starts reaching into his coat pocket that I remember why it was so urgent to find him in the first place. Grabbing his arm, I drag him to a far corner, away from the front desk, and search for signs of Roman or any of his security. My attempts at seeming relaxed fail, just like it did with Roman, and I hold onto what’s left of my nerves. 

“You need to act drunk.” 

Bruce and Lucius exchange glances with one another, the latter shrugging when the former looks at him in confusion. 

“Why?” Bruce asks, suspicious. 

_Because Roman is insane and a petty, spoiled sociopath who hates us both for reasons unknown. _

“Because we can’t take your car home.” It’s stupid to think that would be reason enough for him to listen to me. They say nothing, waiting for me to elaborate with raised brows. “I made it upstairs, and I…” Lucius still looks confused, like I might’ve hit my head again, but Bruce’s face dawns with understanding. “I heard Roman say that he’s done something to it,” I finish in a whisper, my eyes darting around the room like Roman’s about to appear behind me. 

“He’s done what, exactly?” Lucius asks, his tone gentle but prodding. 

_Cut the brake lines probably, disabled God knows what, and seems to be riding on the hope that we both die in a fiery wreck. _

“It doesn’t matter.” I shake my head and pinch the bridge of my nose. “Pretend to be drunk, Bruce. It’s something you’re good at isn’t it? Be convincing and then call Alfred to get you. Have someone look at the car tomorrow, and just—just don’t get in it, OK?” 

Claustrophobia and exhaustion make my mind race, but I still feel sluggish, like my limbs are too heavy and time’s moving too slow. The room shrinks, and the darkness encroaches on the edges of the light. I need fresh air, to be alone, to sleep for ten hours without having any dreams to haunt me. 

“Are you planning on going somewhere else, Miss Kane?” 

Lucius seems doubtful, and I realize that he doesn’t believe me. Or, doesn’t believe that I’m telling the whole truth—and I can’t blame him. What can I say to them now when I know nothing for certain myself, that won’t prompt Bruce to overreact and treat me like a child or go off galavanting across rooftops and putting himself in the line of fire? 

_You need to start having answers instead of just coming to Bruce with questions. _

“I’m taking a cab back to the apartment.” 

“No, you’re—”

“My laptop is there and I need it to look at all the files I ripped off his computers, it’ll be faster. I’ll tell you about everything after I have some solid leads.” 

I pull away when Bruce comes too close, already seeing his decision on his face, how he wants to take me back to hide—to stay _safe._ But Bruce can’t drag me to the Manor like he did after Arkham, and I won’t let him try. 

“I’ll come back in a few days, don’t get so worked up, I’m… I’m not going to do anything rash. I promise. I just… need some quiet.” 

Lucius might not believe me, but I need Bruce to have a little faith. When he doesn't say anything, only carefully searching my face for the tell-tale hints that I’m on the brink of doing something foolish, and I force myself to hold his gaze, holding my breath.

He smooths his hair back, air rushing out of him in a stressed exhale. “You call me as soon as you have something.” 

It’s not a request, but it’s a small price if it means being alone for a few blessed hours. When I nod and smile, burying my unease and fears, Bruce’s shoulders relax. 

“You and Naomi will be the first people I call, don’t worry.” 

It’s a useless sentiment—he’s going to worry plenty, and it won’t be long before he starts installing cameras in the apartment to start monitoring me there, too, or something just as crazy. But that’s a problem for another day, when my head isn’t throbbing. I wave to them both when I hear Lucius offer to give Bruce a lift, eager to leave and shower off the feeling of Roman touching me, the visceral fear that clings to my skin. I’m already writing off getting anything productive done tonight, mentally counting how many glasses of wine it’ll take for me to stop feeling anything at all. 

“Miri?”

I freeze, afraid that this is where Bruce tells me he changed his mind, where he holds something over my head in the hopes that it’ll make me cling to him harder, that I’ll find my only refuge in him. I might’ve done that a decade ago, looked to him as I always used to as the only person who could chase all of my problems away. But Bruce doesn’t seem to realize, as I have, that there is no going back, and even if there are promises that go unbroken, that doesn’t mean they will always be fulfilled. 

He opens his mouth once before closing it, and I think that he’s going to prove me right, that we’ll have to fight and the progress we’ve made will crumble. 

“Your form’s improved,” he says, surprising me. “If you want me to show you how to do it without hurting your knuckles, it’ll save you some pain for the next time you knock someone out cold.” 

I finally laugh, but it’s different from the kind that was tearing at me before. It’s genuine, there is no hint of madness, no backbiting irony, and it helps, just a little, when Bruce smiles back. 

* * *

It seems like an entire day has passed since Roman’s party, but it’s only been just over two hours since Bruce and I first arrived at nine. After I got back to the apartment, I stripped off the dress and threw it in a corner to be forgotten until I have to move, eager to never smell the traces of Roman's cologne ever again. My skin still doesn’t feel clean, even after a thirty-minute shower with the water cranked to the hottest setting. I’ve managed to put off opening the bottle of wine sitting in the fridge, grabbing a tub of Oreo ice cream instead and eating it by the spoonful straight from the container, my laptop perched precariously on my thighs. It doesn’t have the same effect as booze would, but it feels good to indulge in something, to sit in my sweatpants and begin to unwind.

But there’s too much nagging on my mind to relax completely. Why would Roman be meeting with Strange, and what did he mean about being owed a favour? Does that mean he’s involved somehow with the string of murders linked to Arkham? But, if Roman _is _Black Mask, why would he be interested in an asylum of all places when he’s in the midst of a brutal gang war? 

“Maybe this will tell me,” I mutter to myself, holding up the memory stick and twisting it in my fingers. 

I know that even if I manage to get enough information to link Roman to the Black Mask syndicate, it won’t solve the other problems entwined with this mess. The other half of the puzzle lies in Arkham and, if there’s one thing that’s become abundantly clear, I can’t do it alone.

_Who else is there? Can’t ask Bruce—things are already complicated enough… _

My options are limited, and the alternatives that rise above the murky waters that is this case is an idea that’s almost as foolish as attempting to do it all on my own. 

_You won’t always have Bruce there to help just in time, Miri. _

Going back to Arkham is a guarantee—Strange said it himself—and there are too many barriers for me without access to their systems and knowing where to look in the first place. That means that I need the help of three people. 

Jahan, Eugene Klein, and the Joker. 

Fuck, even _thinking _about it is enough for me to develop a migraine. _He’d_ use it to leverage me somehow, try to dig his hooks in a little more, alleviate his boredom by being a malicious asshole, manipulate me in any way he could. Being around him is like willingly drinking poison, but… there was something off about him. If anything was going on with the patients and staff, he’d know. Jahan wouldn’t be any better, but if he’s working for Red Hood, then he’s bound to know _something. _It’s just the part of getting him to talk in the first place. 

_What other options do you have? _

I could tell Gordon, but that’s a whole other mess, one that will only be entangled with what Naomi needs to be done and, once again, I need something solid, not just conjecture and theories and bad feelings. But Eugene has been consistently eager to help, he might be easier to convince, and I need him if I want any hope of accessing the asylum's servers. 

_No harm in looking into him, right? _

Finding Eugene on Facebook isn’t difficult, and his privacy settings are so poor that I can see all of his ‘liked’ pages, his old posts, and look through his photos. It’s not hard to come up with some potential keywords to start running through my cryptographic sequencer. It'll take some time to for it to find his password, so I search through his photos and download them. People would be surprised at the GPS information embedded in the things they upload. For the next twenty minutes, I scrub his profile for consistent and current addresses, cross-referencing them with online maps and making careful notes. Calling him would leave a record with the phone company, and that either means waiting until I’m at Arkham in two days or going to his place directly. 

_Either way… you sound like a stalker. Jesus. _

I take another heaping spoonful of ice cream and nearly choke on it when there’s a gentle tap against the apartment door, so faint that I might’ve been able to dismiss it if it didn’t start again a few seconds after the first. Dropping the melting ice cream on the coffee table, I spring off the tattered couch, grabbing a kitchen knife on the way. My stomach’s in my throat, heart beating too fast and the knuckles on my right hand aching. 

Taking a steadying breath, rationalizing with myself that if it was someone Roman sent, they wouldn’t have knocked first, and that it’s probably Bruce or Zareen, I push down the fear. But it’s still not enough for me to put down the knife. 

“Sunshine, it’s me,” a voice calls from the other side of the door. 

I was wrong—there is something to be worried about. It’s Jason’s voice, and looking through the peephole confirms it. 

_Oh no, oh no, no, no. _

He’s here to confront me about lying, he must be. He must know everything now—there’s enough online to paint an ugly picture of who I am, what happened to me. I don’t want him to look at me like Ryder and Roman do, I don’t want him to think less of me. 

_Can’t avoid him forever. _

But I want to—I want to disappear, for me to have never met him at all. 

_You know that isn’t true. _

It’s just as he starts walking away that I open the door, feeling small and wholly inadequate. “Hey, Jason.” My voice is so quiet, faltering toward the end, but he still hears me even though he’s standing by the stairs, motorcycle helmet in hand, backpack slung over his shoulder, and his leather jacket dripping with rain. There are small cuts and bruises along his jaw, like he's been in a fight. I forget to ask when he grins. It hurts when his face brightens, when he smiles so widely. And it hurts precisely because it gives me too much hope. 

“Sorry I’m dropping by so late. You weren’t answering your phone and after… Well, I just wanted to make sure you were OK,” he says, coming to stand in my doorway as I realize with sudden horror that I look like a slob—completing the image with small spots of ice cream on my hoodie. 

_Crawling in a hole and never coming out sounds like a swell idea right now. _

I was right—I shouldn’t have invited him over after that first Arkham visit, shouldn’t have left myself so open for things just like _this _to happen. I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop, for his smile to disappear, for him to call me a liar. 

_‘He’s a crook, just like the rest of the hypocrites dressed up in Gucci suits. Fucking rich people like him are what’s killing this place.’_

What would he say if he knew that I was part of the class of people he hated the most, that I was pretending to be something that I’m not? He’d hate me—he’d see another cog in the machine that’s slowly eating Gotham alive. 

But Jason doesn’t stop smiling like I’m the best thing he’s seen all day. 

“For a while there, I was starting to worry that you’d ghosted me.” He laughs nervously, running a hand through his hair. 

“No—no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you worry.” I feel that nervousness, too, the guilt of continuing to lie and the uncertainty of what I should say. 

_You could start by letting him in and not standing there like a gobsmacked idiot._

“You can come in if you want—the place is a bit of a mess.” I try laughing it off when I let him in, hiding the knife behind my back so he doesn't think I'm nuts, darting for the tub of ice cream, shoving the knife under the couch cushions, and hastily shoving the melting tub into the freezer. He dutifully looks the other way, hiding his smile and keeping his chuckles to a low rumble in his chest. “Work’s been… Well, it’s been a bit of a disaster, and I've been dealing with some—some family stuff on top of that.”

It’s not a lie, just a vast understatement. I don’t think I have the energy to lie tonight, not with him. 

He raises a brow and takes a seat at the table as he nods, considering. “You seem… off. Everything OK?” 

The dark voice in my head tells me that this is a set-up, that he knows I lied, saw that God-awful broadcast, read one of the dozens of articles about how I'm a fucking sociopath, and that he's waiting to trap me in a contradiction. Social media is everywhere, would he really be able to avoid hearing anything about it?

Jason’s made it no secret that he doesn’t like cell phones—he told me as much the second time we were together at the diner. He doesn’t like the internet, is frustrated by celebrity culture, and usually works by himself doing smaller construction jobs. Would that really be enough of a buffer to shield me?

“Just… feeling a little suffocated right now, that’s all.” Caution is my friend until I know for sure, but my secrets threaten to pour out even as I fight to keep them in. Is it stupid of me to hope that he doesn’t know, that we can keep going in our own little sphere of reality? Would it be so bad to keep pretending?

_You know it’s going to blow up in your face soon enough, Miri. _

“Seems like you need something to take your mind off it,” he says at the precise moment that my thoughts begin to drag me into the endless spiral of doubt and the desperate need to be alone, but Jason keeps grinning, melting everything else away until my chest feels warm. “If you want to, of course. I don’t wanna be part of the problem.” 

That’s something I love—no, _like _about Jason; he asks, he doesn’t presume and is always ready to respect what I say. It’s so foreign that my brain wants to reject it outright, call it a form of deception, but my heart says that it’s true, that Jason means it, that he won’t let me down. 

_And what makes you think you deserve to be around someone like that? _

Maybe it’s because it’s been a long night, or that I simply don’t know what to do when someone displays such earnest caring, but I fight back tears, struggle to find the right words. I don’t flinch when he stands up and comes close. He waits for my reaction first before rubbing my arms, leaning down so that I’ll meet his eyes. 

“Adina, I’m—I’m not gonna force anything. If you’re busy, you’re busy. If you need space, I completely get that, but…” he trails off, rubbing his forehead in frustration, “fucking _fuck_, I’m bad at this.” 

He holds his chest like I’ve mortally wounded him when I start to laugh, and maybe it’s because things feel so easy with him, how my heart races but it’s never in fear, like the past really doesn’t exist, that I _can _be this new person—Adina instead of Miriam—that makes me feel so bold, but I stand on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. His eyes pop open, smirking when he looks at me, and my stomach does an unfamiliar flip. 

“So am I.” 

My hands linger on his shoulders, tracing the hard muscle and bone. Being with Jason like this feels better than anything I could ever drink, any high a pill could ever give me. It’s a dangerous place, leaving me so open to making mistakes. 

I know it'll hurt more later, but I can't find it in me to push him away. 

“Did you have something in mind?” I ask. 

Jason keeps smiling like it’s effortless, and I meet him half-way when he leans in to kiss me. It’s the feeling of his lips against mine, the warmth that ignites something deep in my belly, that makes the risk seem all the sweeter, like maybe it won’t burn me whole. 

* * *

“I thought you were saying something about Thai food before?” I ask, adjusting in my seat when we leave Gotham’s city limits. We’re on a freeway heading in a direction I’m not familiar with, the black night only illuminated by the passing headlights and overhanging lamps. The rain stopped, but when I look out the window, I still can’t see the stars. 

“Yeah, we can do that another night. This is too good to pass up.” 

Jason told me that he wanted to show me something special. I thought it was about food because that seems to be one of the things he thinks about the most, but now I’m not so sure. I was banking on it being a late-night restaurant—I even put on a long skirt and one of my nicer turtlenecks, but now I feel like I’m over-dressed for whatever it is that Jason has in mind. We’re in the car Homeland provided—here’s hoping Naomi doesn’t decide to lecture me again—and I let Jason drive. That sense of doubt creeps back to the forefront of my mind, how my stubborn naiveté is only going to bite me in the ass. 

“You’re not taking us out somewhere to murder me, are you?” I thought the sardonic grin with the deadpan delivery would be enough, but Jason tears his eyes away from the road to look at me with genuine shock. 

“W-Wait—wait, _what? _No, I’d never_—” _

_Real smooth. Fucking hell, Miri. _

“Oh, no, no—no, I’m sorry. It was a bad joke—I don’t know why I thought it was funny.” 

I laugh nervously, like I’m still trying to convince myself that there _is _a joke in there if you squint hard enough. Jason alternates between watching the road and looking at me with worry. I sit up straighter, unsure of what to do with my hands—should I touch his arm to assure him? Hide my face in them as the whole _too awkward to function _point really drives home? 

“No, don’t worry, I…” 

_I what? _

It’s like the kiss back at the apartment’s infected my brain, making me more honest than I’ve ever consciously been with anyone. “I feel safe with you, Jason.” 

The shock and urgency to assuage any perception of malintent leaves and Jason is quiet. My cheeks get hot, the pleasant fluttering in my chest turning into a frenzy that makes me wish I hadn’t said anything at all. 

_‘What are you so afraid of, Miri? Tell your new friend _all _about it.’_

_His _voice is quiet, but I can still hear it like he’s whispering in my ear, feeling the sensation of gloved hands running through my hair. I squeeze my eyes shut, banishing him back to where he can’t reach me, blocking out everything else until I just feel the vibrations of the car speeding down the freeway, the heat coming through the vents and licking my skin. 

“Adina?” 

I flinch without thinking when a hand lands on my arm, pushing myself against the door as my eyes readjust to the dark. Jason draws back, still looking concerned, and guilt presses down on my chest. 

“Sorry, I—my mind was somewhere else for a minute.” 

I try my best to smile, and he nods as he turns his attention back to the road. 

“Oh. Yeah—I can understand that. Happens to me from time to time.” He clears his throat, one hand gripping the steering wheel tight and the other rubbing the back of his neck. “Have you been out this way before?” 

I never went on dates in high school—hell, I can count on one hand how many times I did as an adult, and I don’t know if what I’m doing is normal or not, if there’s some central ingredient to feeling comfortable sitting next to someone else, free of expectations. When I moved to Chicago, old habits of self-harm became a fucked-up form of comfort for me, poisonous and degrading as it was. Nothing really changed, though, from when I was seventeen. No one ever really saw me, most of my clothes always stayed on, especially now that my chest… Well, it never lasted more than an hour. They'd get what they wanted and leave, and I'd lay there, blissfully numb, unable to tell whose touch I was remembering until I fell asleep. And, if it was after a particularly rough night, when _his _taunts were too loud to kill on my own, I'd always have a bottle of something to find oblivion for me. 

Jason isn't anything like those men. Other than his gender, he shares nothing with them. I'd almost describe Jason as self-conscious right now, with the way his lips are pressed tightly together, running his hand through his hair and his leg bouncing up and down, and how he sneaks glances my way with a tentative smile. When I'm close to him, what I feel for Jason isn't what I've searched out before. I don't want to be numb—a terrifying concept on its own—I want to feel all of him, to just have him near, have his arms around me, and it makes me feel better thinking that this might be not often travelled territory for him, too, that he's also feeling some uncertainty. 

“No, I don’t think so.” 

“Lived your whole life in Gotham and you barely know the outskirts? _Sunshine,” _he tuts, shaking his head as he clicks his tongue in mock disapproval. 

“You make it sound like every Gothamite needs its map tattooed on their arm,” I say, making my shoulders drop from their position by my ears, concentrating on each muscle until they unwind. 

“Spent a lot of time on the streets as a kid.” I nod, remembering what he told me about his mom and growing up in foster care. “Got to know the city until it became a part of me. Exploring the perimeter came later after I… well. I used to boost cars. Sometimes I’d risk going for drives before I sold ‘em.” 

He says it matter of factly: _That’s just the way it was. _I don't hear regret. 

“Why?” I ask. 

He laughs, but it’s bitter, almost resentful. “Money, that’s why. Only so much a poor kid can earn legally in this town. You just… do what you have to. Even if it’s ugly sometimes.” 

Foster care is a nightmare in any city, but it’s especially so in Gotham. Not for the first time, I feel ashamed of how much I've had when so many had to get by with so much less. Even though we share many similarities, I know there’s a gulf in life experience where he’s known what hell was a lot longer than I have. He understands it, and he’s just as angry as I am, but there’s an uncomfortable truth in what he’s saying, parallels that are difficult to ignore. 

“You didn’t… didn’t hurt anyone, did you?” 

I can all too easily imagine someone with Jason’s build decimating an opponent, but I can’t put his face to the kind of violence I know. He was a soldier, a kid who grew up relying on crime when there was nothing else, but when I look at his hands, I don’t see someone who would do what someone like Ivan Dimitrov or the Joker would do, I don’t see cruelty and viciousness. 

_‘Do you ever think some people deserve to die?’_

Jason’s expression hardens, and he stares straight ahead, the planes of his face rough and jagged contrasts between the dark and the fleeting glances of light that pass through the car before shrouding us in shadow again. “Not… always,” he says eventually. A muscle in his jaw jumps and I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “If I could avoid it, I did. And it was only with the sick fucks who deserved it. Johns, dealers, neighbours beating on their wives and kids. _Other _degenerates.” 

He sounds angry, and I can’t blame him. It was only a few hours ago that I was so eager to deal out my own retribution, was high on the thought of how much I wanted to hurt Ryder, hurt Roman. 

“Did it feel good?” 

I didn’t mean for the question to escape, for me to sound so distant. My thoughts centre around the memories of pooling blood, the ache of bruises forming, how it was both pleasure and agony to inflict suffering on the men who hurt me. It’s hypnotizing, getting lost in that heady cloud, the smell of rust and the sticky warmth seeping between my fingers when the skin would split and my battered knuckles hurting a little more and the feeling of a knife in my hand giving me what I’ve so often been stripped of—power, control. 

“Did what feel good?” he asks, turning off the freeway to go down a smaller road heading toward a black cluster of trees, empty fields flanking us on either side. 

“Hurting them. Did it feel good?” I sound empty without meaning to, like my own imaginings hollowed me out, consumed what was left. 

“That’s… a tricky question.” Jason sounds distant, too, but I focus on his voice, the deep timbre, letting it tether me when the world becomes a cacophony of white noise. 

“I thought it was pretty straightforward,” I say, my eyes growing heavy. I thumb the seams of the long skirt I changed into, paying close attention to each bump and loop. 

He sighs. “Sometimes yeah, sometimes no." He takes a deep breath, turning down another road that takes us deeper into the woods. I joked about him murdering me, but, even though he’s taking us further away from Gotham, fear isn’t something that finds me. “And sometimes… it felt good knowing the world would be better with one less of those fucks wasting air.” 

There's an unspoken implication in his words. _One less_, indicating that they _aren't _wasting oxygen anymore. I… still don't feel afraid of him, and maybe it's foolish of me not to. I turn to violence as a first line of defence, protecting what’s left of me, and, from what I can tell, Jason used it as a shield, a way to help, to survive. I have a hard time finding any good that my savage impulses ever brought. 

“Guilt doesn’t play into it?” I ask, folding the fabric in my hands into tight pleats before smoothing it out to start again. 

“Not unless I fucked up royally.” 

He laughs, and I smile in the dark. 

“Fair enough.” 

A beat passes and we come up to a clearing, the grass tall and bright green under the headlights, and Jason pulls in just enough that we’re clear from the trees obstructing any view of the sky. The car has a sunroof, and he opens it up and rolls the windows down before cutting the engine and taking out the keys. Out here, the sky is clearer than I’m used to, the moon half full and casting silver light on the waves of grass, the tops of the trees and the fields beyond. I can't remember the last time I did something like this, even at the Manor. I always preferred being indoors, only eager to be out when the sun was warm and shining. Mom loved the city, and there's too much smog to see anything past the light pollution, and we only ever left for trips or when we'd stay with Bruce and Alfred, but even then we didn't go outside just to stargaze. A lump forms in my throat when I remember that I never did use the telescope Bruce bought me, that I won't be able to show it to Jason. 

“C’mon, it’ll be more comfortable if we sit in the back,” Jason says, pulling my attention from the heavens back down to what's in front of me. 

He opens his door and pushes his seat forward. I follow his lead, pushing it as far as it'll go before climbing into the back. The air is damp and cool, flooding into the car through the open windows, and I hold my sweater more tightly around me. It's tight quarters in the backseat even with the extra room—Jason's taller and broader than I am, but he encourages me to sit close to him, checking to see if it's alright before draping an arm over my shoulders, pulling me closer until my head's resting against him. It doesn't feel claustrophobic, like I'm trapped. It feels… I'm not sure how to describe it, but I chase the feeling as we peer up through the sunroof. 

"It's cleared up nice, that should make it easier to see…" he mumbles to himself, his foot tapping in anticipation. 

“You said there was something that was ‘too good to pass up’?” I crane my neck to catch a glimpse of his face, and his hand rubs up and down my arm. 

“Yeah, watch for a second, they’re supposed to start in a few minutes. Once they really get going, we can go outside for a bit if you want—just didn't want you to freeze too much.” I can guess what we're waiting to watch, but I still raise a brow and nudge his ribs gently with an elbow. He rolls his eyes playfully. "Meteor shower. Supposed to be a pretty good one, too. That's why I didn't feel too bad stopping by so late—you said you were a night owl, right?" 

Nodding, I return to rest against him, my body forming to his. It's relaxing enough that I could fall asleep, my eyes captivated by the sea of light above. It's like we're on a different planet, or even in a different country. It's so quiet here, the only sounds apart from our breathing are the crickets and croaking frogs in the distance. I'm not sure why I never thought to do this before, why I never searched out the night sky. 

“Why?” he asks. My senses return a bit, becoming more alert as I blink and look at him in confusion. “Why did you want to know?” 

_Because I want someone to tell me that how I feel isn't wrong. _

“Sometimes I wonder… how much it helps to hold onto hate. To just… be driven by that I guess. If it makes things easier,” I say instead, hiding my face from him. 

“It’s like I said before, Adina.” His hand trails up from my arm to my neck, his thumb brushing against my skin. It feels good, so different and foreign from what I'm used to, and I lean into his touch. “Nothing takes that away. Not really." He takes a deep breath and I feel his chest expand, his muscles taut as they tense and relax, and I place a tentative hand on his chest, feeling warm when he takes it in his, the tips of his fingers gently touching my swollen and bruised knuckles. "Feeding it, though… that’s a guarantee that it’s all you’ll ever feel.” 

My heart beats so fast I think it'll stop when he brings my hand to his lips. It's a different fire from wrath that's pooling in my stomach, different from the hateful, self-inflicted burns I'd give myself with each random encounter. Being close to Jason makes me feel like all those parts of me never died, that they're alive and teeming in my chest, like I was never broken. 

“Maybe…” He keeps my hand by his neck, and I slowly trace the lines of his throat, feeling the small remnants of stubble close to his jaw and the contours of his collarbones. “Maybe some things help.” 

We're quiet for a moment, content with being close and watching for the streaks of light to rend the sky. We don't have to wait for long—faint and fleeting trails of light flash before disappearing, leaving no trace behind as they're swallowed back up as others rain down. There are gaps between them as one fades and another appears, but each one feels novel, exciting. 

“It’s beautiful.” 

I didn't realize I was holding my breath, that I'm smiling. It's something so simple—sitting out in a car and just _being_, but it's the most peace that I can ever remember feeling. When I look at Jason, he's not watching the stars; he's watching me. His face is softer, the small tuft of white at his widow's peak and his blue eyes turned silver, and if it wasn't for the rising and falling of his chest, the steady beat of his pulse, I'd almost think he wasn't real, that I couldn't have something like this. 

_Don't think about anything... don't think at all. _

I pull away to readjust, turning so that I can face him. My hands shake, but I place them on his shoulders, summoning the courage to hold his gaze. He's waiting to see what I'll do, patient and expecting nothing, but when I press my lips to his, I can feel his want through the way he places a hand on my hip, giving it a small squeeze, how the other gently runs through my hair when our tongues meet, the kiss deepening and our breathing becoming heavy. 

I could do this forever, I think—touch him like this, have him hold me. Our chests press together, and I only break the kiss for him to move closer to the middle seat, helping me swing my leg over his so that I can straddle him. We keep kissing, a moan I don't mean to make quietly escaping me when he runs a hand down my thigh, tracing my bare skin when my skirt hikes up toward my waist. 

“Jason,” I pant, forcing myself to draw back, to rest my head against his shoulder as I catch my breath. 

“Yeah, sunshine?” 

He's just as out of breath as me, and I can feel the restraint in his arms, how he keeps them from holding me too tight, from climbing too high, even though I can feel him hardening against me. He wants to continue as much as I do, but this is important. I don't want Jason to feel used, I don't want him to think that this doesn't mean something to me. 

“Do you… do you want me?” I ask, hesitantly meeting his gaze, my teeth worrying over my swollen bottom lip. 

His grip tightens, holding me like an anchor but never clawing, never trying to trap me in place. “Yeah, I—” He swallows, his eyes burning like the sky above us, blue and clear and full of something that I can feel resting low in my belly but can't name. “Yes, I want you, Adina.”

I nod, that feeling of being alive heightening to the point where every nerve ending sparks where our bodies touch. It's intoxicating, intimate in a way that's always terrified me, a kind of closeness I've never felt with anyone else. I card my fingers through his black hair, struggling to hold onto and understand what's constricting my heart. 

“I—I need you, Jason,” I whisper. “Please.” 

He cups my face in his hands and kisses me again. It's more urgent, our desire chasing away the cold and turning every touch electric. 

"Is this OK?" he asks when he places a hand under my shirt to rest on my stomach. 

"Yes," I murmur against his lips, feeling the hard muscles of his chest under my fingers, my hips rolling and making him groan. 

"Is this OK?" he asks again when his hand climbs higher, the other pulling up my skirt. I stop his hand at my ribs and adjust my weight to grind against his length. 

_"Y-Yes,"_ I pant, gasping out breathless affirmations with every repeated confirmation for consent.

He doesn't move to pull off my sweater, but he takes off his own shirt, his skin hot under my touch. His chest is more scarred than mine—cuts, long and deep, are scattered across his stomach and shoulders, his skin marred and torn on his left side, the scar tissue twisted and tight. It's from shrapnel. Poorly healed and an angry pink, I touch them gently, kissing his shoulder and being careful of the large bandage on his side. Deep purple bruises mark his ribs, fresher cuts signs that maybe his days of violence aren't over. My own wounds pale in comparison, but they don't have an explanation he would understand. So, I don't think about why I can't show him mine, why I can't feel his skin pressed against mine, and drop my hands to the waistband of his jeans.

“Is… is this alright?” 

I wait for him to nod before I undo the button, his hips rising when I trace my fingers over his stomach, light and teasing. He does the rest, digging into his jacket until he finds a condom. I pull my panties to the side, eager to feel him, my breathing stuttering when I sink onto his length, the air stopping in my lungs when we're flush against one another. 

We both can't find any words, both of us getting lost in the other. One hand has a steadying hold on my hip as I control the pace, the other gripping my breast, his thumb brushing over my nipple through the thin fabric of my sweater and bra. I gasp and moan, the heat in my belly building in a way I've never felt, relishing the sweet ache of him inside me, my teeth lightly tracing his neck. Jason's breathing just as hard, his control slipping once or twice when I move my hips a certain way, when I pant against his skin and dig my fingers into his shoulders. He kisses my throat when my spine arcs, my head thrown back and eyes shut tight, sucking on the skin and gently biting.

It feels good. Good in a way I've never experienced, and something else builds alongside the pleasure, each laboured breath growing too close to a sob. I hold him harder, move faster as I lose my mind, let it drift instead of drowning me. It's just Jason and me, our bodies pressed together, his hips rising to meet mine, his hand moving from my waist to press his thumb against my clit, every touch a small bit of addictive, electrifying fire. 

My muscles ache, thighs close to giving out and trembling, but I don't want to stop—for this to ever stop. But my climax comes swiftly, unexpectedly—I almost don't recognize the feeling. I yelp, barely suppressing a scream as I cling to Jason, urging him not to stop when he slows, my body a shivering mess that convulses around him. He holds me tight, riding me out through the first orgasm and into a second, and tears come that I can't explain, but I hold him like I'll break if he lets me go. When he cums, his muscles tighten and seem to ripple, his groans turning into a muffled roar as he pushes up into me one last time. 

I collapse against his chest, both of us spent, and my eyes close when he kisses my hair, lingering as he inhales deeply. Our sweat makes my sweater damp, but I can't convince myself to push him away, letting my mind float just a little longer. And Jason doesn't rush me, waiting for me to move first. He kisses me and it's almost chaste compared to what we just did, and I make myself stay lost in the sensations, not letting anything else in that might confuse him. It's hard when he finally helps me move to sit beside him, my legs shaking as I fix my underwear and pull my skirt back down, that feeling of coming undone persistently nudging my heart. 

_Don't think about it here._

I stare out at the sky while he cleans himself off with something he pulls from his backpack, handing me a bottle of water as he buttons his pants up and takes a long drought from another bottle in his hand. I'm not sure what to say—no one ever stayed longer than to put their clothes back on when they finished, but Jason isn't going to leave, and I don't know why it's something that feels heavy in my lungs and tight in my heart. 

_No, you do. You're afraid. You're always afraid. _

How I feel now, my head light and the world taking on an unreal haze, almost makes me think that I'm high—it's a similar sensation, but there's nothing in my system other than the chemical rush of endorphins. It felt _good. Jason _felt good. So why do I feel sad? 

“Do you ever feel lost?” I ask, watching as another meteor falls across the sky, the black space between the stars starting to lighten. Dawn is at least another two hours off, but the spring sun's reach is long, and, for once, I wish that the night would last a little longer. 

“Not if I have a compass.” 

He laughs and so do I, but my smile quickly fades. His arm brushes against mine, and I can't help but wonder if he regrets being with me, if this didn't mean much after all, that I'm the only one too stupid to have thought it meant something more. 

“No, not literally.” I shake my head, my throat getting tight. “Sometimes it’s like… like I’m falling. Everything’s always just—just so _quiet_, like my heart’s heavy enough to drown me, and I…” 

Jason's quiet. I can't bear to look at him now. The last time I told anyone how I felt, it led to the never-ending nightmare that defines so much of my life. But I'm not concussed, and Jason isn't a murderer. I _want _to tell him, but an equal part of me wishes I'd never agreed to see him that first night we met, that I'd been smart enough to never put myself in a place where anyone could hurt me again. It's almost more terrifying to think that I might always live with the doubt that one day Jason might than if it happened outright. It would save me from grappling with doubt and uncertainty, like the pain would be easier if I knew when to brace for it. 

But still, I keep trying, searching for something that might not exist.

“I always feel so…” 

_‘Do you ever just—just feel like you can't do anything right? That everything's too hard, it won't get easier and… and there's no point in trying at all? It's… Grandma said that my heart is too heavy, that it weighs me down.’_

Parker's voice is unexpected. The memory of his face when we were in the basement of the Manor holding hands in the dark is enough to wind me. I thought I understood him then, but it feels oh so real now, a misplaced wish that might keep me safe. But the thought of it makes my chest hurt. I wipe at my eyes, but the small trails of tears don't stop. 

“Feel so what?” Jason asks softly, his voice just above a murmur. 

“Alone.”

I wince when my voice breaks, when the tears come faster. What a sad, depressing scene I must make. If I wasn't in the middle of nowhere and Jason didn't have the keys, I would've run away, disappeared with the hope that he'd forget about me quickly. 

“You’re not alone, sunshine.” Jason leans over me until I finally look at him. But he doesn't look at me with pity, not with contempt the way _he _would have. His eyes are sincere and honest. I want to believe him just like I did that first night in the rain, I want to believe that he cares, that he knows I feel the same. “Not with me.” 

I reach up and brush my thumbs across his sharp cheekbones, affirming that this is real, and I search his eyes for a lie and find none. 

“Do you mean that?” 

His hands are calloused and rough, but they're also gentle, they aren't taking anything, they hold no expectations. Hands are what hold you close or push you away, and I don't know what I want mine to do, if I should hold him like he's holding me, or if I should let go, leave him before I'm left alone wondering why I expected any different. 

“I’m not going anywhere if you don’t want me to.” 

I want to believe him; I want it to be true. 

_Let it be. Just for tonight. _

It's like my arms don't know what to do, like I missed some vital lesson on how to hold and love, like I never learned it at all. But I move through the unfamiliar, embracing his warmth, the smell of him, his faint remnants of aftershave and our sweat, and wrap my arms around his neck, burying my face where it meets his shoulder, our chests pressed together as our two heartbeats become one. And I let this be enough, let myself believe that I deserve this, let Jason be all I've ever known. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay safe out there everyone, and thank you for being so amazing. I appreciate all of you so dang much! 💖
> 
> I'd also like to give a special shout-out to Jasminau for all her help and support with this chapter - it means the world! And I'd also like to thank JohnJoestar and clv44 for being such great and steadfast friends even though I really suck to replying to anything in a timely manner. I couldn't do this without you guys! 😭💖


	20. Strange Apparitions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I am SO, _SO_ sorry that this chapter is over three weeks late. Life's been a bit of a mess with figuring out internships, jobs, online classes, and the mess that is the world right now. I hope you enjoy the chapter and that it isn't disappointing after the long wait 🥺. You guys are the best, and I appreciate you dearly and hope you've all been well! (My deepest apologies if this chapter is trash, it was a bit of a struggle for me to finish, 😭)

My throat constricts, stomach tightening into a heavy lead ball that sinks deep until it pins me to my seat. I'm beginning to wish that I hadn't gotten out of bed after all.

_Calling in sick seems like a great idea now._

But it's too late—I can't go back and unsee this massive mess in front of me, even though I'd give almost anything to be curled up under my blankets and my head buried under my pillow, warm and groggy. Jason stayed the night at the apartment, and I slept so deeply that I forgot he was there until I felt his arm draped around my waist, his thumb running up and down my ribs, his breathing so deep and even against my back that it felt like my own. But I didn't feel afraid, my nightmares didn't bleed over into reality, it felt… like we'd done it a thousand times—sleeping next to one another, my back against his chest and curled into him, my dreams forgotten in the morning. I liked having him there, that he stayed, how my body fits into his. I woke up first, trying to find it in me to tell him to leave, but I didn't want to. I didn't want the morning to end. Maybe that was the dream—some pleasant and foreign reprieve.

_Yep. Should've definitely stayed in bed._

He was still asleep when I ran down to the small cafè a street over, grabbing a random assortment of bagels and coffee for breakfast. God knows I don't have much of anything edible in the apartment, and he was awake by the time I got back. It was one of the best mornings I've had in a long, long time. But it had to end, just like everything does, and I'm still struggling not to let myself feel disappointed, that I didn't try sooner, that a part of me is still looking for where this is going to go wrong. I was almost glad when Jason left to go to his sister's place, and I've been sitting at Sal's Diner to sift through the data I pulled from Roman's computer for almost four hours, losing myself in it until now the only thing I'd like to do is go back and slap myself for thinking any of this is a good idea.

_Everything you do feels like a mistake._

The 50's decor and neon lights don't help the pulsing behind my eyes, or how they're struggling to focus on the lines of text and code. I've been cross-referencing incoming shipment schedules and manifests with the attacks credited to Red Hood all over Gotham. They match up—wherever Roman was expecting a shipment, it was the exact time that Red Hood would attack.

_Brilliant._

The initial case dossier said that they thought the heroin was coming through the overseas shipments, and Red Hood beat Homeland and the DOD to the punch. The night of the Docks fire, the one that _The Gotham Times _said was as an accident and had been corroborated by the falsified police report, matches a shipment of goods coming from Korea, but when I compare it to a near-identical copy that was buried and encrypted in Roman's hard drive, it shows that it was routed through Afghanistan first. And it was Afghanistan or Pakistan that the DOD thought the drugs originated from.

"Jesus," I mumble, rubbing my tired eyes. Staring at the computer screen for this long is making my vision blur and a headache pound at my temples.

_Can't stop now, though._

If that wasn't enough to incriminate Roman, then his separate payroll accounts would've done the trick. One of them is legit; they connect back to employees who've been with Janus Cosmetics for years, if their LinkedIn profiles are to be believed. The other payroll list connects to bank accounts in Switzerland, saved under the filename 'FalseFaces'. Roman was arrogant enough to keep _both _of his little empire's stockpile of information together on his computer. Well, I wouldn't have been able to access any of this if I hadn't ripped it from the CPU itself—whoever set up his encrypted network was good enough to have kept me out for a while if I tried to force my way in, but still—his ego rivals even that demented clown's. The rotten cherry on top of this rancid sundae is the list of last names accompanied by more bank accounts, and Roman's done most of my work for me—he named the file 'GCPD'.

_Fucking hell._

The finer details still need to be sorted out, and I still haven't figured out who's running the specifics of the FalseFaceMarket website for him, but this is enough for Naomi and Gordon to sic their entire teams on Roman.

_And what about Bruce?_

I think about calling him, giving him a heads up before Homeland descends on the entire thing. But what if Naomi found out? She'd have my hide, not to mention the whole _collusion with vigilantes_ bit.

_You're screwed no matter what, so… pick the one with the least consequences?_

No matter what I do, there's going to be a fallout, things I can't predict. If I give it to Naomi and Gordon first, they're going to run the whole investigation, and that means there's a long list of people who are being paid to make sure none of this sees the light of day and who possess an incredible incentive not to get caught. Getting enough to arrest Roman could take months, and the subsequent trial—if it even gets that far—will take even longer.

_And how often do the rich and powerful actually do the time they're supposed to in this city?_

Not often enough. Not before Batman came, anyway. It's an uncomfortable thought that I technically fit within that category, being exempt from scrutiny, taking responsibility. I want to justify it, court the thought that I didn't really do anything wrong, but that wouldn't be true. Maybe that in itself is reason enough for me to not be part of seeing this through, passing it onto better, more capable hands. It's too important for me to screw up.

_And if you don't cut off the head of a snake…_

That almost makes my decision for me, but I need to think. What would happen if I gave this information to Bruce, if he went somewhere and got hurt? I mean, yeah, he beats the shit out of people as a permanent, all-consuming hobby now, but how many times could he get lucky before he got hurt, _especially _with nut jobs like Black Mask and Red Hood out there? I don't know if it's my stubborn unwillingness to indulge his self-destructive pursuits or the genuine fear crushing my chest that makes me want to leave him out of this, but the indecision is paralyzing.

_Objectively, who do you trust more to make things right?_

Temples throbbing and suppressing a groan, my pulse jumps in my throat when I dial the number I memorized two years ago, already feeling tongue-tied.

"Please, don't let this be a mistake, please…" I mumble under my breath as the line rings.

_"Wayne Enterprises, how may I direct your call?" _a woman answers, sounding way too goddamn chipper than anyone ought, even if it is after lunch.

I hide my face behind what's left of my hair, speaking as low as I can. "Can I speak to Lucius Fox, please?"

Lucius is the one Bruce goes to for this, I'm assuming. Giving the data to him will be more helpful—he has more tools to compile everything quicker than I can—and I know Bruce will get everything he needs. They can help. And I'll be far away from tainting any of it.

_"I'm sorry, he's not here at the moment. Can I take a message?"_

_Shit, shit, shit._

That means calling his cell. Having a more personal conversation than I think I'll ever be ready to have. "Um—no, that's alright," I sigh, ready to hang up before a thought strikes me. "Wait—do you know when he'll be back?"

_"Let me check his schedule." _I can hear clicking in the background, the gentle sound of her breathing, and I try to ignore how the hair on the back of my neck stands up. _"He's back for a meeting in two hours."_

"OK, great, um—"

_Now what?_

"If… If I drop something off in the next hour, can you make sure it gets to him? It's for a joint project. Sensitive files that I can't send over email."

That sounds legit, right? Like I'm not just bullshitting my way through all of this?

_It probably does sound like you're bullshitting, let's be real._

_"Certainly. I'll make a note to expect it. Sorry, I didn't catch your name, Miss…?"_

"It's Proxy." He'll know what it means. Well, he'd better, being that he's the first one to figure out I used that as my online alias. "Thanks."

I hang up before she can reply and make a comment about the name, putting in a new thumb drive into my laptop and downloading the files. No matter what I do, everything feels like a mistake, and it's only a matter of time before this ticking time bomb blows up in my face.

_Or someone else's._

"Kane."

Nearly knocking my laptop off the table and half-climbing out of my booth, I reach for the knife in my back pocket. Anyone saying my name is a bad sign, and I don't recognize the voice. My eyes don't focus until a large man sits across from me, landing heavy as he adjusts in his seat, the pungent smell of meat and sweat wafting in with him. Anger is what comes first, but I push it down, even when all I can think about it smacking him on this meaty head.

"What the _hell _are you doing here?" I all but yell at David. More _choice _words rise to the tip of my tongue, but I swallow them when the waitress walks by, smiling as I wave away her offer for more hot water for my tea with a tight smile. "No, wait—better question: _How _did you know I was here?" I finish when she leaves, seething.

He's red in the face like he just came from a run—something I find unlikely given the pouring rain outside and the heavy trench coat he's wearing. His skin is blotchy and his eyes shift around the room and never land on me. When I met him, he seemed decidedly bored by everything, stoic and passive. He didn't seem present, and now it's like a switch's been flipped in his head, like he remembered how to be alive. But not in the thriving sense—he's lacking the verve. No, he reeks of paranoia and… is it desperation?

"Asked Naomi," he says after a moment, coughing into his hand and staring out the window.

My eyes narrow, and I force my thoughts to quiet, to keep myself from throttling his thick neck. "She didn't know I'd be here."

The only person who would've guessed it is Jason, and I know for certain they've never met. David finally looks at me, his eyes big and wild, before twisting to look at the diner exit, his bulk pushing against the table until the edge hits my stomach. "GPS. I—I asked her to look it up," he mumbles, hiding his mouth behind his hand.

_This is getting weirder and weirder._

"Why would you do that?"

I lean forward on the table, trying to take up more of his line of sight. He stumbles for a minute, his mouth gaping open before shutting, and he struggles to look anywhere near me. His hesitation doesn't last long before he stiffens, face turning hard even as his eyes stay frenetic and wild.

"You're supposed to keep me in the loop. What's happening with your end of things."

Falling back against the booth cushion, my jaw tightens. "So instead of calling, you just decided to stalk me and then just sit down and have a chat?"

David shrugs, peering at the diner counter and into the kitchen through the swinging doors as water—or is it sweat?—pours down his temples. He says nothing, _offers _nothing. Putting my faith in Bruce over Naomi feels all the more warranted now, and I growl in frustration, struggling not to smirk when he flinches.

"I think I have something," I say eventually through gritted teeth when it's clear he's unwilling to speak. "Can't tell you how, but I know who Black Mask is."

"You—you do?" His head snaps forward, the muscles in his neck jumping to an erratic, staccato beat. For how David's looking at me now, it's easy to think his heart's giving out. He clutches his arm and wheezes like he's in pain.

_What's wrong with him?_

Something… isn't right. He's acting strange, enough that ignoring it would be a problem. Either he's high, or he knows something I don't.

_Then how do I handle this, with the truth or a bluff?_

"I'm going to be scrubbing everything tonight, compile what I can get and all the metadata will be ready with a detailed report for you and Naomi in a couple of days. Happy?" It's not exactly true; she's going to have it by tonight or tomorrow, and I already have all the data in front of me. David goes pale, the redness gone until I can see the purple and blue outlines of his veins under his skin, his eyes straining. He's finally looking at me now. "Why do you look like you're having a stroke? You're not, are you?"

He blinks once, twice, and he still can't summon a noise. I'm worried that I'm actually going to have to call 911 before his chest starts to move and his cheeks flush crimson when he sucks in a rattled breath. He tries speaking three times before he can make more than a faint squeak. "No—no… Uh, how'd you get all of that?"

He's trying to be careful now, composed. Too bad that doesn't work so well when you're a terrible liar. Or, too afraid to be able to lie well. This rubs me as wrong, off—all of it. I sit up straighter, purposely relaxing my face and keeping my breathing even. "Does it matter?"

I shrug, unwilling to offer more than that. He looks out the window and his eyes go wide, his breath coming out in a pained wheeze. I try to see what he does, but all that's out on the street is a bunch of parked cars and people walking with their heads bent down against the rain or hiding behind umbrellas. The bad feeling curdling in my stomach sours when he starts hyperventilating.

"David, what's wrong?"

He jerks away when I move forward, standing up and almost knocking over the booth table with him. He hardly seems to notice. "I, uh—I need to go."

"David?" He turns his back to me, all but sprinting for the door. I get up and follow—I thought I'd be faster than him, but he's out the door before I can grab his jacket. "David!"

He's gone, vanished around the corner and my shouts swallowed by the rain. A few passersby stare, their brows raised before they continue on. The feeling doesn't leave when they keep moving—like eyes are fixed on the back of my head. The hair on my arms rise, my nerves sparking.

_Something's very wrong._

I don't know what it is, but I've learned to recognize this feeling, the subconscious knowledge that things are about to go sideways. Closing the door and walking slowly, I smile at the waitress like the strange exchange between David and I didn't happen, ignoring both her look of concern and her soft questions. I grab my laptop and stuff it in my bag, pulling on my jacket and throwing three twenties on the table before leaving the diner. Rain soaks through my hair to run down my scalp before I get to the car, the sparked feeling transcending into a burning fire under my skin. Paranoia and instinct tell me I should take a cab when I get behind the wheel, shivering and teeth clattering together, but I dial my phone first, my jaw tight as I wait for her to answer.

_"Make it quick, Kane."_

Maybe I'm more tense than I realize, or maybe I'm just fucking _furious _that Naomi is not only babysitting me but compromising my work on top of that, but I breathe fire, anger licking up my spine, the pleasant remnants of this morning forgotten. "Why the _hell _did you give David my location? You could've asked and I'd have met him somewhere, but he's acting like a fucking crackhead and—"

_"I didn't give him shit," _Naomi interrupts, barely audible for the intense noise that's like a plane engine roaring in the background. Still, I can tell she's mad, probably at my tone, but she also sounds confused, and that's never a good sign. Today seems to be full of those._ "He never called me."_

"Then how did he—"

_"What did he ask?" _The noise on her end of the call quietens, like she just shut a door. Other voices seem to whisper in the background.

"He wanted to know about what I have so far on the Black Mask case."

_"Did you tell him?"_

Her voice is hard, but I've never heard it quite like this before. I almost want to lie to her, tell her I made a mistake, that things with David are fine, that I'm overreacting. I know I can't do that, but my throat is tight, David's erratic behaviour infecting me and fixating on everyone who passes the car and seems to linger for a second too long.

"No, just that I had an ID on Mask pending confirmation." Naomi lets off a long string of curses, less than half of which I can hear, and she groans. I'm sweating like David was, the inside of the car windows fogging until I can't see anything. "What's going on?"

She doesn't answer for several moments, her breathing heavy and barely controlled. _"You're still meeting me at City Hall, correct?" _she murmurs; something shifts in the background.

"Yeah…"

I imagine her nodding, her expression hardening into marble like when she does mission briefs; her tone is no-nonsense and curt. _"Get your laptop right now if you don't have it. Don't go back to your place, don't stay with your cousin, and only use cash if you're going to buy anything." _Her voice is almost swallowed by sound again and she muffles the line, speaking quietly to someone else before she comes back, loud and clear._ "Leave the car where it is and find another ride. I'm flying into Gotham in two hours, meet me in three. Don't tell anyone where you're going and keep your phone off—buy a burner and text me so I know how to contact you."_

We'd talked about protocols like this in training, cutting ties and getting the hell out of dodge. It's saved for when you're compromised, when they need to pull people out of the field. I've helped coordinate several extractions before, but her words still hit me in the stomach, my body coiling until my ribs are too tight for me to breathe.

I've been burned. David's been talking to people he shouldn't have, and now it's a matter of staying a few steps ahead before someone puts a bullet in me.

_Or worse._

And there's always worse.

It's like a dozen pairs of eyes are on me, coming closer and waiting for me to open the door. I want to speed away, drive to the Manor and see someone familiar, have help so ready at hand, but if they're tracking the car, then I'm screwed.

_Correction: you're already screwed._

Something jumbles the line. She's hanging up, leaving me to panic all on my own. "Naomi, wait—"

_"No one can access your files, right?" _she interrupts again, and I finally pick up a hint of the same panic flooring me in her voice, how it shakes, how it's so uncertain.

"No, not right now—"

She sighs. _"Keep it that way. I'll call as soon as I'm on the ground."_

I don't have time to do anything else; she's hung up by the time I take a breath. My hands shake so badly that I almost drop my phone. I'm staring at the steering wheel in paralyzed shock, fear flooding into me, slowing my blood until it all but stops in my veins.

_Breathe through it. C'mon, sitting here won't help. You've survived worse._

Hands trembling, I pull out the memory card from my phone and turn it off, leaving the keys in the glove box. The next idiot to come in here will find it when it inevitably gets carjacked and it might distract the right people. The shake in my hands flows up my arms until my body's racked with them when I stand out in the rain. It pelts through my jacket, pouring down the collar of my shirt and down my back. I'm not sure what direction I should go, where it's safe and how much time I have. The streets seem flooded with people waiting to kill me. Will they do it with a knife, stab me and flee? Or will it be a bullet to the back of my head like I'm a troublesome dog who's disobeyed one too many times?

"Don't think like that. Use your head_,_" I mumble to myself, drawing my jacket closer around me and picking a random direction to follow, keeping my head down and my eyes darting around me, watching for hands buried in their inside jacket pockets, malicious intent in their eyes, anyone who stares too long. The most terrifying thing is that I really have no idea. My enemy is a faceless one now, could come any time. I almost throw up in the gutter, panic bleeding out my pores.

_Who got to David? Who has the reach to pull that off?_

There's only one answer to that, given my recent activities.

_Roman_.

He might not have realized I ripped everything off his hard drive when I saw him last night, but he's probably figured it out now. He was willing to sabotage Bruce's car when he theoretically didn't know I was onto him, was a complete creep when he didn't know I'd figuratively screwed him. What will he do now?

_Nothing good._

I need more answers, and I can't wait for Naomi, I can't wait for Bruce. Naomi never told me about any safe houses before I came to Gotham, didn't mention any on the phone, and I figure moving from location to location is better than hiding out in a McDonald's somewhere. Wiping the water streaming down my face from my eyes, I throw my phone in the gutter, crushing it under my heel until it's just shattered glass and bent metal.

Creating a mental list to work through, I walk down the street, hoping to pass by an electronics store or 7Eleven. Burner phone, text Naomi—even getting a new jacket and a hat might be a good idea—text Alfred so he can get a hold of me, see Eugene—

"Miriam?"

My body goes rigid but doesn't shut down this time; I recognize the voice, how he says my name. Despite that, it doesn't calm my heart, doesn't stop it from seizing like someone's gripping it in their fist. I don't know how much more of this I can take.

It's Jahan. He's wearing a leather jacket, and I can't help but wonder if it's the same one he wore when he rode off on his bike when I was a kid, it certainly looks old enough, and his head is like mine, naked to the rain, his curly hair hanging around his head like black springs.

"How did you—?"

I stop myself, unsure if I want to hear the answer. Maybe he's the one Roman's paid to kill me, wanting to add in an extra dose of dramatic irony and misery. I'm waiting for his hand to leave his pocket, to see the shape of a handgun, a switchblade before the knife extends, perhaps a look of regret on his face or fury.

But I don't see any of that, and I realize it was foolish to think it in the first place. He has a walking boot on his bad leg, and he's leaning more heavily than before on his cane. He's haggard, his dark skin ashen and drained, purple circles line his hollow eyes, and deep bruises mark his jaw and throat. I still see my father, the man who let me down, one of the people I used to hate the most, but now I also see a man who looks utterly broken. It's like before—my anger drains away, and something miserable takes its place, and I can't help but feel sorry for him.

_Is that what I looked like, once?_

"You were here before. With the tall boy," he says, shuffling back so that he's out of the immediate downpour and under the green awning of an Italian restaurant. He winces when he moves his leg, and he shakes harder than I do from the cold.

"What made you think I'd be here again?" I ask, following after him and pulling my collar up closer to my face, both to obscure it and keep out the wind.

"I asked after you once. They said you came often—to the diner, so I…" His voice dies, and he looks at his feet. I don't miss how it sounded thick, how his accent deepened, like he was about to lose that tight control of his emotions he always prided himself on having. His hand clenches as he winces again. "I waited for you."

My nose crinkles, appraising him again for some sort of clue to make sense of that. He's soaked through, he might've been standing out in the rain for hours hoping to run into me. Why not wait in a car, why risk being spotted?

_Why does it still hurt so much to look at him?_

"You realize you just admitted to stalking, right?" I bite, struggling to hold onto my sympathy. Bitterness coats my tongue, acrid like burnt coffee. Bitter because I want to be angry with him and I can't. Bitter because, despite everything, some small, young part of me is glad to have him near. I clear my throat, thinking of the last news I'd heard about him—how he might've been dead, how everything he worked for is gone. The bitterness grows when I find that I can't even feel smug about that, either. "The police are looking for you, the Amaseena looks like a warzone, so why are you here?"

He looks past me, down the street with his thick brows drawn together, something I almost mistake for longing passing over his expression.

_You don't have time to stand around while he wallows in self-pity._

It hurts to turn from him, to break the small distance between us and move away, but I do, swallowing the tears stinging the back of my eyes. "Nothing changes with you, does it?" He doesn't answer, and I sigh. "Goodbye."

I don't make it more than ten steps but, even over the thundering rain, I can hear him as clear as if he was beside me. "_Sakhif aljahim_." I'm not sure what it means, but it sounds like a curse. Deciding not to care whether it's aimed at me or not, I force myself forward, my head down. "Please wait, _habibti_."

Listening is a bad idea. Staying here is, too. He could be stalling, waiting for someone else. I want to believe that, but it doesn't feel true. I take a deep breath. "What do you want?"

He hesitates, his eyes searching mine. It's strange, being able to see so clearly what he's thinking, seeing the conflict there. Would I have had these same realizations about Mom if she was alive? Would her memory of being so strong, my rock and my friend, indomitable and stubborn have ebbed until all I could see was the sad, flawed person that the idealization of childhood blinded me from ever noticing? Would she have disappointed me so thoroughly?

"You need to leave Gotham. Tonight," he says, finding some courage, a reason to keep his back straight. That's certainly not what I expected to hear from him. "Maryam… Miri." He looks down the street and gestures me closer, and I begrudgingly obey. "You've pissed off the wrong people."

The scoff is involuntary, but my eye roll isn't. "I seem to have a penchant for that," I mumble.

"Go back to where you were. Gotham is no place for you." He doesn't even seem as tall as he used to before, and he's lost weight. I wonder if this is what it would've been like to talk to my grandfather if I ever had the chance to meet him.

I laugh, but it's forced. "That's rich." My tongue feels thick, swollen in my mouth, like it doesn't want me to spit out anymore hurts. I can't seem to help myself anyway. "Why the hell do you care? You can't just—just come here and _pretend _and try to be a father now." He flinches like I hit him, staggering until his back smacks against the brick wall. My lip curls into a snarl. "How the fuck would you know anything_—"_

"I just do, _habibti,_" he murmurs, eyes at his feet.

"No, that's not good enough. Tell me." Shifting, I move in front of him, demanding that he look me in the eye. "_Tell me._"

"Do not shout," he says, almost reaching to touch my arm before dropping it back to his side. He huffs and rubs his eyes, the rain bleeding down his skin. "I tried to live a life without regrets. I do not think I succeeded. There is much I regret." His voice sounds thick again, full of something I almost want to call remorse. Is that something he's ever felt before? Is he faking it here with me now? It's like I'm back on the beach with him, young and wanting to believe he's capable of something I know deep down he isn't. But, this time, the sun's gone, the sky overcast and his face obscured in shadow, his light drained away. "I… I wish things were different."

The awful thing is, I think he means it.

Hot pinpricks trail down my cheeks, stinging and useless. Why be upset over something that can't be changed?

"Yeah. So do I." My throat's been scraped raw, and no matter how much I clear it, the feeling doesn't go away.

"Bad things will happen tonight. You can't be here."

He sounds grave, like Naomi had on the phone. My stomach sinks. Too much is converging at once, and it's only a matter of time before I'm right in the middle of a trainwreck. I wish I could talk to Bruce, have him figure this out with me, but I can't do that now. Roman would expect me to be with him, and I can't drag him into my immediate mess if he's going to sort out the larger problem.

_Right?_

Something breaks through at that thought, and I don't know why I didn't think of it earlier. "You work for Red Hood, don't you." It's not a question—I remember what Gordon and Bruce said. I can still remember what it was like when I met him, his lack of mercy and cold resolve.

He hesitates for a moment until I cock my head knowingly. For once he swallows his liar's tongue. "Yes. He did not give much choice."

I wonder if he's the reason Jahan looks like this, given the fearful gleam his eyes take at the mention of his name. If Red Hood doesn't have mercy or give much thought to killing underlings, he didn't even flinch when he shot the one in the knee and pistol-whipped the other, and I'm not sure I want to know how he treats his criminal partners. Red Hood's known about Roman being Black Mask the longest, being that he's attacked his shipments for weeks, but how did he know?

_Maybe he's the one causing the trouble tonight…_

"Is it him that's doing this? Who I need to stay away from?" I ask. Jahan's paranoia heightens my own, and I look over my shoulder for anyone stopping to listen, people who are standing too close.

"No—he plays a different game. It's Black Mask. He is…" Jahan curses under his breath in Arabic, closing his eyes and shaking his head like he bit into something rotten. "He is _sharir_. Devil. There are… rumours. Nasty rumours."

He doesn't expand, growing quiet as the implications loom over me. I've seen what kind of site Roman runs, felt a low dose of him being a creep for myself. The thought of there being more makes my stomach twist.

_'Don't ask questions you don't want to know the answers to, remember?'_

"Like what?" I breathe, unconsciously drawing closer.

He sighs, weary and fearful. "Rumours that make the Joker sound like a merciful man." That makes my spine straighten, sweat collect at the nape of my neck. He touches my arm and I flinch, stumbling away and my heel almost catching in a large crack in the sidewalk. Jahan looks stricken, but he hides it quickly, drowning it in passivity as I lean against a light post, my chest heavy and tight. "Too many know you are here, and you need to leave_. _Tonight." He takes his hand back, looking at it as if it somehow betrayed him. I think he's going to say something else, but he blinks and turns away. "Goodbye, _habibti."_

Maybe it's in the way he says it, or maybe how he holds the words in his mouth, how they rest against his tongue, but it strikes another memory. Or, rather, one that's missing. I can't remember the last time I saw him smile. If he ever had in front of me.

"_Babba."_ I don't know why I'm speaking, why I'm trailing after him, but it's like I can't stop myself. "You… Why did you never try leaving?" I ask. He tilts his head, confused. "You could, too. Tonight."

Realization dawns, and he stares at me, looking as if seeing me for the first time and liking what he finds. I remember now how badly I wanted his acceptance, how special I would feel when he was with me. It hurts, hurts like someone's pressing on my throat, like my lungs are weighed down with bags of sand. It's like I forget all those years of hating him, all the shame and pain that came with being related to him. I'm yearning for something I know never existed, but I can't help but want it.

"No, no," he says softly. "I have… how do they say… 'I've made my bed'. There is no leaving for me, Gotham is my home now." The hard angles of his face disappear and, for a moment, he looks like the father I never had but the one I always imagined. _"Fi Amanillah, habibti."_

"You said that last time," I say, catching up to him. I'm not sure why it's now that I'm suddenly determined to rekindle a relationship that never existed, one that he willingly threw away almost twenty years ago, but that stupid, childish part of me wants to keep trying. "What does it mean?"

"It means goodbye, little one." He smiles now, but isn't quite real—there's no mirth, it's sad. I can't speak the words building in my throat. _"As-Salaam-Alaikum."_

I don't know what it means, but he's already leaving. For the first time in more than a decade, I wish I remembered what he'd taught me when he gave me Arabic lessons, how to move my tongue to form the words, what the elegant curves and short lines, almost like they were some strange and beautiful kind of sheet music, scrawled across the page meant. It's lost to me like so much else, and it's only now that I wish I'd held onto more. But he's gone, immersed in the lunch hour crowd and swallowed in a sea of black and miserable grey, and there's no more hate in my heart, no more malice to fill what's been empty for so long. But there isn't any hope to replace it, not even now. I'm not expecting to see him again, for things to be different for us.

_Goodbye, babba._

I'm glad that it's raining, that it lets me pretend for a while longer that I'm not crying, that it's fear that's making my heart ache like it's being carved out of my chest and not the all-too-familiar grief swelling inside of me, reminding me of what could've been before taking that away, too. Just like everything else. And I can't help but wonder if I could've made it different, or if everything I do really is meant to fail, that I really wasn't supposed to have any of this after all, and that I was foolish for ever thinking I did.

* * *

The road ahead of me is dark. Faint green light comes from the small clock in the dashboard, the illuminated lines for the fuel level and engine temperature and speedometer adding a little more to show the backside of the steering wheel. The headlights are low, and the thick trees hide any wildlife hiding behind their trunks. I'm glad I left early to go to the meeting point—I've gone the wrong way three times and had to circle back, but I think I'm getting close.

Running away and leaving Gotham isn't an option, so I've elected to pursue an alternative route: do what no one expects me to and hope for the best. They can't find me if they don't know where to look. That in itself probably makes this a terrible idea, but there's only so much I can do on my own while staying out of the way of the important things.

Still, following a set of handwritten directions down a back road to the rear of the Arkham Asylum grounds seems especially stupid.

_What else were you supposed to do?_

Naomi never showed up to City Hall. Gordon wasn't there either. No one I spoke to knew where either of them are. As far as I know, her plane landed, but I couldn't try locating her with my laptop without staying in one place for a few hours, and that wasn't an option either. She didn't answer her cell even though I left her four messages, and I had no new instructions, no planned contingencies. So, I'm… improvising.

_That's one thing to call it._

I risked going to a bank to pull out cash after I walked to Wayne Enterprises to drop off the data with a note saying it was urgent, and it wasn't the first time I've been smacked in the face with the immense benefits of being rich. It only took five grand to buy an old Sunfire off a random person I walked by with no papers even though this thing with its rattling engine and sticky gears is only worth closer to a grand, but I didn't need him telling anyone about it. Without any contacts or places to go, staying on the move seemed like my best bet, and I found Eugene Klein at his apartment on the West Side of Gotham easy enough, and I was glad I did my research on him last night. I couldn't blame him for being afraid—having someone you've only met at an asylum for the mentally ill show up at your door is probably written in a medical handbook under _psychosis-fueled erratic behaviour. _He jumped so high when I greeted him that I genuinely thought I'd given him a heart attack, and it took ten minutes of explanation in between bouts of hyperventilating for him to listen and agree to meet me and agree to my request. It's him that gave me a set of directions and suggested the spot after thinking for a couple of minutes. He kept looking around erratically, eyes sweeping the street like he was waiting for someone to jump out at him from behind one of the parked cars.

_For all you know, someone might've been._

Paranoia seems to be both abundant and necessary today, so I can't blame him. Eugene told me to meet him for nine, and I'm going to be fifteen minutes early. I was supposed to go to Arkham tomorrow, but I won't be making that appointment. If something is happening tonight, then I can't wait until tomorrow to try and work through all the security in the daytime when I need to talk with Eugene. And then there's the suicidal notion that I need to talk with the Joker.

_You're insane. Absolutely insane._

Well, I've had worse plans. I think.

I turn off my headlights completely when I'm close, but I can see the hulking outline of the Arkham facilities. They're a void of black with their bright perimeter fences and guard towers, and even those are almost a kilometre out from where the road ends. Eugene described an old, dilapidated storage shed, and I think I can see the roof of something beyond some tall grass. I shut off the engine, ignoring how my hands shake and my stomach feels like I'm on the precipice of a rollercoaster about to hurtle over the edge and I can't see where it ends or what's waiting along the way.

The grass is wet, licking against my face as I push through it. I'm by no means short and Eugene is smaller than I am, so how the hell he's making it through here without getting lost is a mystery, but I make it to the shed. It's abandoned and Eugene wasn't lying about the state it's in. The beams look rotted through and what's left of the roof is covered in lichen and moss, still dewy from the rain. Any of the light from the guard towers doesn't reach here, leaving me with the grass at my back, the dark interior of the shed, and the tension smothering me.

I check the burner phone after what feels like fifteen minutes but has really only been four, and I'm on the verge of leaving anyway and settling for hiding out in a McDonald's after all when I hear a car engine, see the light filtering through the green. I grip my knife tight in my hand, blade extended, my body tense like a strung bow ready to snap. If I thought Eugene was a mess of nerves before, it's nothing in comparison to the mess of exposed nerves in the form of a man walking toward me, my own anxiety pale in comparison. His hands wring one another violently as he makes his way through the last of the grass, shaking out his legs where it clings to him.

"I'm glad that you came," I say, smiling gently when he gets closer, my voice low just in case TYGER guards do end up walking patrols out this far. Not that I think they would, there'd be sense coming out to something that's half-rotted and abandoned unless they had a reason.

_So let's not give them one._

Eugene tries to smile but he's covered in a cold sweat, his shirt sticking to his skin. He jumps at each sound of a cricket chirping around us and his own feet crushing rocks beneath them.

"H-Hello, Miriam," he says, looking down at his hands. It's quiet, and his nervousness is just as infectious as Jahan's paranoia.

"Why did we come all the way out here?" I ask, breaking the silence. His head jerks up like my voice was a gunshot, eyes wide and fearful. He reminds me overwhelmingly of a petrified deer, and I keep calm even if I'm not feeling very different. "Why didn't you want to talk about this at your apartment?

He nods, taking his chapped bottom lip between his teeth as he walks forward, tentatively peering into the shed before nodding again. "I—I'm… I'm not sure. It's—it's a feeling."

_That's helpful._

Sarcasm isn't the way to go with Eugene; I keep smiling, trying to gently keep his attention on me. "Something's very, very wrong here." He meets my eye at that, and I can almost see his pulse hammering in his throat. "Am I wrong?"

He takes a deep breath and shakes his head. "N-No, you're not." He puts his hand on my elbow, nudging me further into the shed. I'm not worried about Eugene, even with a gun I could take him, but it's what else that could be waiting that's worrying. Still, I follow. "It's… It's the patients."

"What's going on with the patients?"

All I have is sound in the wet dark that is the shed. "I… I'm a psych nurse, I—I was in ch-charge of giving med—medicine to the high… high-risk patients." I can hear him breathing, each laboured inhale as he struggles to speak coherently. "But then…"

_I'm going to have to drag everything out of him, won't I?_

"I want to help, Eugene. You didn't want me here, did you. When we first met." He vibrates next to me, and I can see his shadow nodding. "Why?"

"He—he'd talk about… about you. Sometimes." I almost want to tell him not to say it, that I know without it needing to be spoken aloud, but I'm too late. "Joker." My stomach falls. The ride's begun and there's no getting off it. "They… There was an—an incident about a year b-back. He got loose and… he killed three people, w-wounded four more." The Joker being violent is nothing new to me, but my heart still clenches. It's how Eugene says it, how afraid he is. "He kept… kept shouting how he wanted you to die."

That's not a surprise either, but I still can't find anything to say. I can only imagine what that might have looked like, what kind of damage he'd do when he didn't have access to knives and explosives. For a moment, I think Eugene's crying, but I see a wave of movement in the form of him rubbing his eyes and breathing deeply.

"He… he used to be p-part of my rounds, but th-then it was like… like he—he disappeared."

"Disappeared how?"

Eugene takes something out of his pocket, and I have to blink and shield my eyes when he turns on his phone's flashlight function. The inside of the shed is worse than I imagined; I don't know how the thing isn't caving in on us now. But what's the most surprising is the storm doors built into the floor, rusted slabs of metal that Eugene swings open. A long set of stairs greets us with a gust of cold and musty air, and there is no light to guide the way, which is why it's surprising that Eugene is the one leading the charge down into the labyrinth.

_Fucking hell._

I go in after him, leaving the doors swung open behind me. I think about sending a message to Bruce, but if he's doing what I suggested in my note to Lucius, he'll be too busy to answer anyway.

_Looks like you're on your own._

"They—they said he—he was in one of the person… personal safety rooms. I-Isolation cells." The stairs go down for a long time, deep into the earth. Even with my jacket on, it's freezing by the time we get to the bottom. He shoulders a door open, his small frame struggling as the creaking hinges finally give and a door opens. Lights flicker and glow, and a long tunnel stretches as far as I can see. I swallow down bile, the sick memories from Amusement Mile, ignoring how this is going to have the same destination as it did back then. I try not to think of what that means. "I couldn't find him when I—I'd check for h-his medical charts. And then… then more went missing." He checks every once in a while to make sure I'm following, and other tunnels branch off to the sides of us, marked by letter and number combinations.

_This must lead to the different Arkham facilities._

I wonder who else knows about these, how long they've been here and why they were built in the first place. They seem old, rust and built-up lime deposits bleed down the walls, pooling on the floor. Being that one of the entrances is outside the perimeter fence, I'm banking on the hope that the guards don't know about this one.

"I… I recognized the l-last man. The one wh-where they h-had the comp—composite sketch," he continues, and I stop, eyes wide. His voice turns into a hoarse whisper. "Leonard Wilkes. He'd… he'd been a patient s-since the g-gas attack. From the—the Narrows. No immediate family… no one to ask after him."

"What are you saying?" I wait for him to answer, but his face flushes crimson. He won't meet my eyes, his lips shaking. "Eugene. Why didn't you tell the police?"

He turns from me, his eyes brimming with tears, and keeps walking. Memories—ones of being trapped in a maze and holding up Parker, him dying and fighting for every breath, me pinned to a cold floor as my heart was cut out—make it hard to keep pace with him, for my head to stay clear. I tell myself to breathe through it, to focus, to keep my anger from tearing me apart.

"Th-They were… doing something to him. Th-The Joker. O-Others would… would disappear and come b-back weeks—sometimes months l-later, and they… they were… _different,_" he says, ignoring my questions and forging on, taking the next left as the path behind us goes black.

"Different how?"

He turns and opens his mouth, but he shuts it quickly. He looks haunted, a man on the verge of losing his grip on his life and reality.

"If you've noticed all this, why haven't you said anything?" I try again, my voice rising. "People are _dying, _Eugene—"

He shakes his head violently, and I can almost see his skin rippling, his pulse jumping like live wires. "He on-only reappeared after I—I spoke to a w-woman. His lawyer." We take the next right, and the tunnel here is shorter, colder. My breath fogs as I breathe. "Brenda Sheppard. He came back, but... " he runs a hand through his hair, pulling at it with white knuckles, "but no one else."

The name Brenda makes me pause. That's the name of the woman Roman was talking to. If he's collaborating with Strange on some level, then is she the connection? 

_You have too many questions and not enough answers. _

"Why didn't you talk to the police, Eugene?" It's hard for me to stay composed, and he flinches from my voice like I threatened to hit him.

"I—I wanted to, b-but after…" He stops suddenly, his shoulders shaking as he finally starts to cry. "Th-They l-locked me—me in W-Wing D during a br-break out. They… I hid, a-and after, Strange, he—" A sob chokes out of him, and his small frame looks close to crumbling. "I—he... he showed m-me... _things._"

I'm tempted to ask what he means by that, but the absolute terror running through him in the place of blood wards me off voicing my questions. Strange is a sick bastard, I already know that and I've met him twice. I don't think I want to know what else he's doing.

_Is that why Roman's meeting with him? They're in on some demented project together involving Arkham patients?_

The victims all looked like the embodiment of fear—their mouths open, their tongues either missing or chewed to pieces, nails gone and teeth chipped and pieces of their own skin caught between the gaps of them. Jonathan Crane ruined the lives of nearly ten thousand people when he released that toxin in the Narrows, and he cooked that up in the old asylum. What Strange could be doing here with his own private guard and unlimited city funding is too much to think about. There's too much conjecture—I need definitive answers, and Eugene's my only way to get them.

"Eugene, it's OK—it's OK. Breathe, alright?" I say, hesitating as I put an arm around him, rubbing his arms as he struggles to breathe. Eventually, he pulls away and pushes through one last door, revealing another set of stairs. At the bottom is a box.

"Here," he says, putting his glasses on the top of his head as he wipes his cheeks with one hand and passes me a white doctor's coat and a badge with the other. It's for someone named Doctor Anika Singh. We look alike only in how both of us have black hair and dark skin, but the chances of some white guard looking close enough to tell the difference are slim. I shrug off my coat and start putting on the white one before pulling what I can of my hair back and tying it into a half-ponytail. Eugene takes his own credentials and coat, and he follows suit, straightening himself out as he tries to compose himself.

I pull out a memory stick from my jeans pocket. "This is what I need you to put in one of the server towers, as far from the entrance as you can, OK? Just like I mentioned at your apartment."

His fingers tremble, but he takes it from me. His eyes are red, but he finally holds my gaze. "I… You shouldn't be a-alone with him. He—he's dangerous—"

"I know, Eugene. I know." I try to smile, but it doesn't last long, doesn't feel real. If what Eugene is saying is true, then the Joker might be the only one alive who knows what Strange is doing and how Roman is connected. If there are more people trapped here who need help, then their only hope is a manipulative psychopath who gets off on playing mind games with me. But if Batman's going to deal with Roman, I need to deal with Strange, even if that means dealing with the Joker, too.

_For any of this to mean something, you have to cut off the head of the snake. _All _of the snakes._

"I'll be OK. He's medicated and usually strapped to his bed, right? I'll be fine."

I hope I sound more convinced of that than I feel. My face feels tight, my skin thin. I just need to hold myself together for a little while longer, get through this and be comforted knowing that Gotham will be a little safer for not having people like Roman, Red Hood, and Strange trying to capitalize on the misery of Gotham. And maybe Bruce won't have to work as hard, he can take a break.

_Now _that's_ wishful thinking._

"Yeah.. yes, that's the s-standard procedure."

Eugene nods, and I feel a little more comfort for it. But I know, maybe better than anyone, that the Joker's greatest weapon is his words.

"O-On the other side is... is Wing D. This is—is how you get to his room, and... here's the codes." Eugene passes me a piece of paper. I speed-read through it, trying to memorize as much as possible, and Eugene's breath starts to shake again. "You only have fifteen minutes. Then you need to—to meet me by this door."

I look at my phone, noting the time and confirming with Eugene. He slips through the door first, heading for the server room. I count to thirty before I open it, check both ways, and keeping my head down, my pace even despite wanting to bolt through the halls. The fluorescent lights are jarring after the dimness in the tunnels, the halls too bright. The pungent smell of chemicals fills my nose and I try to ignore the overwhelming sensations, how my body's finding every reason to panic. I have a mission. I have an objective to focus on. Things go wrong when I lose myself, and I can't do that here. No one will come if I need them this time.

My resolve almost goes out the window when I pass two TYGER guards, but they don't even glance at me. The badge Eugene gave me works through every door, getting me through the intermittent security doors and their thick bars until I'm in the isolation area. On the doors lining the hall have numbers instead of names, and I check the sweaty note in my hand.

**0801**

It's at the end of the hall, the last door on the right. Just like it was at Amusement Mile. I feel like Eugene, ready to snap and burst into hysterics.

_'I thought about you_ every day. _Did you think about me?'_

He won't get the better of me this time. I won't let him. I know what to expect and it won't happen. And there's nothing to stop me from stabbing him this time.

_You can do this, Miri. You have ten minutes._

Any of the half-assed lines of argument I thought of on the way to meet Eugene won't be enough. Anything I plan when it comes to him doesn't work, so it's time to try something new: No plan at all. A plan can't go wrong if you don't have one.

_Better hope that's not your epitaph, Jesus._

Fingers trembling, I punch in the code and swipe the badge. The electric locks click and the door opens, and after pausing for a beat, I step inside, shutting it behind me.

Eugene was right, the Joker's in a straitjacket and laying flat on his back. The room is dark, but his eyes stay closed when the lights flick on. My chest is heaving, and I resist the urge to shift, to arrange my clothes, push my hair back, standing straight and emulating Batman's trademark stoicism. His eyes move behind his closed lids, but I don't think he's sleeping. It smells like him in here, that powerful aura of sweat and, somehow, gasoline. Like it's permanently part of his blood, pumping through his heart. It's stifling, overpowering. But I hold my ground.

"Wake up."

My voice sounds too loud and I wince, but it works. One lid opens, and he groans, rumbling deep in his chest as he rolls onto his side.

"Go a-_way_."

I open my mouth to say something but, in all the scenarios I ran in my head, I wasn't expecting that response.

_Is... Is he still sleeping?_

"What?"

He shoots up in bed, both of his eyes open and bleary.

"What?" His faces scrunches like he's about to sneeze, his scars bright pink against sallow skin. The surprise and disbelief shifts as he blinks and wakes up, recognition lighting his eyes. He blinks three times, closing them on the last for a moment before peeking one open, like he's expecting that I'll disappear.

"What are you doing?"

I didn't mean to ask that, but it seems to clear up whatever just came over him. He straightens and wiggles his shoulders as best he can with the straitjacket on. His eyes narrow, his mouth pulling to one side as he cocks his head. "Huh. How 'bout that," he mutters to himself, smiling salaciously. "To what do I owe the, ah, _pleasure, _Miriam?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay... now some bad news. 🙈 Let me first do some explaining: I've been working on the Watching the World Burn series for two years straight this coming July with no real breaks in between that. The short breaks I did have were so that I could finish school projects, do things for work, etc, but even during all of those things, I was always writing and plotting for this in almost every waking moment of spare time I had. I even dream about it often! But working for two years on something non-stop, with no real breaks has left me feeling burnt out. Both mentally and creatively. I have a plan for this story, I really do, and this isn't me abandoning it, I promise! But, for right now, I need some time to explore other projects and space out my publishing so that when I am publishing, it's the best content that I can give you guys. It's because of you, all of my lovely, wonderful readers, that I've been able to strive so hard and be so motivated, and I hope you can understand why I need a break right now and remember how much I appreciate every single one of you. I'm not disappearing, I promise I'm not abandoning this story, and I really hope I can get back to it with more steam come this fall since school won't be as intense, and I hope you can wait this out with me. 💖
> 
> On a completely different note, one of the projects that I started and am going to be working on over the summer is called _Incantare_, a Jack Napier origin story that's not much of an origin, haha. I won't say more because ~spoilers,~ but definitely check it out if you like! It's a completely different writing style than what I've done before, and I hope you like it :) Also! I had someone comment and ask what I thought Miriam looked like, so I decided to do a tumblr post with my muses! You can find the link on my profile page or look me up under "ladyoftheseastuff"!


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